The Coal Miner's Daughter
by FortuneFaded2012
Summary: The life of a mining family can be filled with hardships. When her father becomes ill Sidney decides to take his place at the mine. Her crewmates, including Gale Hawthorne, think that this is a man's job only. Begins during the time between HG and Quell
1. Chapter 1: Black Lung

A/N: I find myself enamored with thoughts about the life of a coal miner's family in District 12. Writing this story has really been a journey of discovery for me. Feeling the emotions and developing the struggles of a girl who must survive in an occupation that is mostly for men. I hope that you enjoy the story and how Gale began to weasel his way into it. Thank you for reading.

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><p><em><strong>December 31st<strong>_

I wake up this morning with unbendable limbs and crusty eyes. After wiping the crumbles away I look over at father's bed. He is still huddled beneath his blankets. I stare at his back and notice that he is trembling slightly. I open my mouth to ask him if he is alright, but become distracted by the wisps of white air that rise from my lips.

Confused, I sit up and immediately feel the cold draft as my covers fall from my shoulders. I shiver and press my arms tightly around my body. _Boy, is it freezing._

"The fire," I mutter watching my breath billow out in front of me.

My limbs protest as I rise from bed and slip my feet into slippers. With my blanket secured around my frigid shoulders I walk softly to the fireplace in the living room and peer down at the embers. With the iron poker in hand, I stir them lazily. The embers glow timidly. My eyes fall on the empty portion of floor beside the fireplace, out of wood, _of course_.

Returning to the bedroom I quietly pull open the top drawer to the dresser and remove a worn wool sweater. I find my crumpled pants by the foot of the bed and retrieve them. Suddenly, father begins a heavy coughing fit in his sleep and I eye him warily. His body has gotten so used to coughing that he doesn't even wake up for it anymore. His large back shakes as the coughs wrack through him violently. I close my eyes and try to will away his pain.

Father and I both know exactly what's wrong, but we don't acknowledge it. There's nothing that can be done. In the Seam everyone knows what a cough that lasts longer than three months indicates. If you've been directly exposed to coal dust for too long you can develop Black lung.

Without Capitol medicines the people who work the coal mines run the risk. Every year miners die who have worked the coal mines since they were young, strong men and women. Father's been down there since he was eighteen. Every day he travels into the black abyss.

The caverns below District 12 are deep and treacherous. A web of tunnels that gather souls and swallow them up whether they are alive or dead. The death trap that could collapse, explode, or poison you with carbon monoxide at any second…and if none of those things get to you first, there's always Black Lung to look forward to.

Black Lung, the death sentence of a coal miner. It kills you slowly. In the early stages you don't even know you're sick. Then, the coughing starts. At first you believe you have a cold, but slowly you realize that it never goes away. It is a long and painful death. It's how my grandfather died and his father before him. So many ways to perish as a coal miner. So many reasons why the elderly population in the Seam is small and mostly female.

I remove the blanket from my shoulders and grab a second one from my bed. As softly as possible, I drape them over father. He doesn't stir.

Entering our small washroom I look at my haggard appearance in the mirror. We haven't been eating very good meals lately and it is starting to thin my face. My high cheek bones appear sharp under my sallow skin. Turning on the faucet I fill my cupped hands with the icy water and splash it across my face. I lift the bottom of my nightshirt to dry my damp features with it. Then my chapped hands pull the thick sweater over my head reluctantly. It's funny how the cold makes appendages difficult to use. My pants feel stiff as I shimmy into them with my thin long-john covered legs.

Upon entering the kitchen I grab the tea kettle and fill it with water. I turn the gas on the stove and take a match from the book to light it. Gingerly I place the kettle over the burner. A burnt spot is visible where the kettle touched a hot pan once when I was five.

I stare at it and think about my mother. When steam begins to flutter out the spout I hear it whistle. I throw a green mint leaf into my favorite mug and pour the hot water over it. My fingers eagerly wrap around the mug and seep up the warmth it provides. The smell of mint drifts into my nostrils, clearing out my nasal passages.

I let it steep for a couple of minutes before removing the leaf. I sip the tea even though I know it will burn my tongue. Probably a good thing that it does anyway, because it will mask the taste of the hard bread I unwrap to go with it. My facial muscles ache as I chew it stiffly and gaze out the frosted window. People on the street are milling about, beginning their Sunday mornings.

Across the street Mr. Pratchett is smoking a pipe on his front stoop. His white hair is hidden under a brown cap. I watch him spit into the lawn beside him and amble off into the street, waving at a passerby. He lives with his wife and their two grandchildren. Sometimes I watch the children when Mrs. Pratchett needs to run errands.

From my perch at the window I can see the Hawthorne's home as well. Hazelle Hawthorne washes our laundry on Wednesdays if we can spare the money to pay her. Usually only father's clothes get the professional washing, because he needs it more than me. Hazelle can remove any trace of coal from a garment of clothing.

I smile to myself while I think of their family, probably still nestled together in bed. Every house in the Seam includes one bedroom. Most families have two beds at least. I can imagine the three Hawthorne boys squished onto one mattress fighting each other over space.

My lips curve into a gentle smile as I finish my tea and get back to the task at hand. I glance at the bedroom and hope that father is warm enough for the time being. I grab my hand-me-down boots from beside the front door. My feet reluctantly toe my slippers off. Gripping the edges, I slip my feet into the boots and grab my wool coat from the hook beside the door. It has black mittens in the pocket that glide scratchily onto my hands. I brace myself and open the door to the chill winter morning.

As I step around the back corner of the house my chest fills with frustration. The wood pile has toppled forward bowing the once perfect stacks into a rounded arch. I sigh as I proceed to throw round logs to the side. I'll have to start the stacks fresh and line them more closely to the house to keep the wind at bay.

The mittens on my hands are ridden with holes that allow the wind to bite angrily at my fingers. My cold hands feel chapped, but I try to ignore the aching sensations. Once the pile begins to show some semblance of balance I strategically begin placing the bigger logs. Each time that a hunk of wood is thrown onto the stack its resounding thunk echoes off the neighboring houses.

During the night there was a light dusting of snow and it crunches beneath my boots. The coal dust hasn't settled into the whiteness yet. Soon the Seam will begin to look grey as the coal dust settles over the blankets of white.

I brace my back against a large gust of wind and begin choosing which wood I want to bring into the house. My arms sink under the weight as I trudge back to the front porch. Unceremoniously I release my burden onto the steps and return to the newly stacked pile for more.

The temperature is dropping further each day. I look sadly at our meager wood pile and wonder if we'll make it through next week. As the days get colder we are using more and more wood. I sigh heavily as I trudge back to the front porch and drop my load. Another sigh escapes my lips as I sit on the top step and use my hatchet to splinter some of the logs into smaller pieces for kindling to restart the fire.

Normally father wouldn't let the flames die out in the night. He would rise from his bed while I slept and keep the fire placated. Even with it lit the winter nights were brutal here in the Seam and father would pile multiple blankets on both our beds and we'd tuck our long-johns into our thick socks. Lately father has been ill and sleeps fitfully through the night. Therefore, he's too sore and tired to keep the flames alive.

And now here I am sitting on the steps preparing to restart the fire and keep father comfortable. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and split a few more pieces off a big log. The smaller kindling will help me to nurture the fire to life. A big log might smother it before the flames can lick it. Across the way I notice Gale Hawthorne closing his front door. His hands grasp the collar of his jacket to shake it out and put it in place. My eyes follow him as he crosses his lawn in long strides and disappears behind the house. Collecting wood most likely.

He's an interesting man. We're in the same year, but he hasn't spoken to me much since we were really young. I remember summers playing together in the meadow. That was before his father died in a mine accident and he became the man of the household. Growing up fast really changes a person.

I admire him though, for the way he protects his kin. Maybe also for the way he lives, hunting in the woods and selling his game for money at the Hob. He's brave. A lot of the girls at school think he's the most handsome bachelor in the Seam.

I won't deny that he does have striking features, or that he's a head taller than most men. Heck, I won't even deny that his muscles appeal to me, but he's still little Gale, my childhood friend. All those girls fawning over his every move, it must be strange. It makes me feel slightly sorry for him. I feel worse knowing that the only girl who he has eyes for is currently "dating" her fellow victor, Peeta Mellark.

I finish splitting my kindling wood just as Gale rounds the corner with his arms full of a large load of it. His eyes have found me now and he nods a hello.

"Good morning," I call with a small wave of my mitten hand.

He smiles briefly before tapping the front door with the toe of his boot. His younger brother Rory opens the door for Gale to enter. I lower my hand and gaze at the wood in front of me. _Back to work,_ I think as I rise from the step. I fill my left arm with a chord of wood and open the door with my right.

The portion of floor beside our fireplace is usually where I stack the wood that will be used for the day. Two armfuls get us through a day most of the time. After the pile is neat I return to the porch and retrieve what I have left behind.

My stiff hands lean the kindling up against each other in the hearth. I place a crumpled piece of newsprint at the bottom to act as a catalyst and take a match out of the matchbook that I left on the table. The flames need a little care and tender doctoring before the kindling ignites. I keep feeding more pieces on the flames until they are able to engulf the wood heartily and lick away at the surface bark. I add a large log that will last for quite some time and stand back to admire my work.

Warmth begins to seep slowly throughout the room. My cold body seems to tingle with life as it heats gently. Father's thick cough presents itself again. My eyes fall grimly in his direction and I wonder vaguely whether he will be able to go to work this week. Whether we will make it past the last pile of our wood.

I look at the fire and feel helpless. I think of mother.

_**January 8th**_

Father is coughing worse today than usual. His chest heaves as another attack seizes him. I sit across from him at the kitchen table and bite my lip between my teeth. His face is turning purple with the effort to gasp in air. My heart is squeezing as I watch him helplessly.

He went to work three times this past week even though I discouraged it. On the third night he was brought home by one of his co-workers who had to help him walk through the coughing fits. When the miner showed up with father in tow he gave me a sorrowful look. After he helped father inside he looked at me and without saying a word he spoke to me with his eyes.

_Black Lung_, his sorry eyes said.

He whispered to me as he held his headlamp between his hands, "A few months, maybe less, what with this cold winter and all."

I understood. He was telling me how long father would be alive. How long I had before I would lose the only family member I have left. I smiled painfully and thanked him for his help.

Now, as I sit here watching father choke himself my mind spins circles around what I must do. Father won't like it one bit, but it's the only choice I have. The only thing that will give us enough money to keep father fed, warm, and semi-comfortable.

"I won't let you go back to the mines tomorrow," I murmur when he has finished coughing. Father's eyes are watery from the exertion. He shakes his head softly and blinks several times.

"Sidney, I have to. We need the money," his voice is like gravel. Different then it was when I was a child. I shake my head right back at him and ball my hands into fists beneath the tabletop.

"You're too sick. You need rest. I'll send for Mrs. Everdeen in the morning. I can't watch you wither away like this. I'm sure she can give you something. When I know that she is on the way I am going over to the mines to speak with the foreman," my voice sounds smooth and strong even though my heart feels weak.

Father's eyebrows furrow at the mention of the foreman. He takes a sip of his tea and eyes me over the rim of his cup. I think he knows where this is heading.

"I'm going to tell him that you can't come to work anymore and that I want to – no, I _am_ taking your place on the line," I let my words seep through the air and into silence. Almost immediately, father's face contorts. His muscles look rigid. What is that emotion springing forth?

"No," he states and forces his cup back onto the table. His hand rubs his temples as he closes his eyes to think for a moment. "I can't let you go down there. It's no place for a woman. It's no place for anyone, especially my own child."

I feel the frustration welling up inside me, ready to burst through me. I try to ease my voice calmly, "I won't take no for an answer. I'm 18 years old and I have the right to make my own decisions regarding this family." He shoots me a glare, which I gladly return.

I stand my ground and continue, "I'm sick of all this no place for a woman stuff too. I am just as capable as some of those men. I need to provide for us just as badly. The mines' the only place where I can make decent wages." _If you can call them decent wages._

I stand when I am finished, hoping that this emphasizes my point. I think it does, because father's shoulders drop and he places his face in his hands. When he looks up I can see the pain in his eyes, "Sidney, I don't want you to do this. When I'm gone – and let's face it, I'll be gone soon – when I'm gone I want you to quit that job. Find something else. Find something that will keep you fed and pay for the house. Just not this way."

All I can do is nod and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. My cheek rests on his dark hair as I hug him to me.

_**January 9th**_

The following morning I rise and dress myself warmly for the day. After helping father with breakfast I stoke the fire and tell him to rest. Before I leave him I remind him that Mrs. Everdeen will be over in a few hours and that he needs to drink some mint tea. He smiles weakly, but his eyes are dark as I close the front door behind me.

The coal mines are on the South end of the Seam. The site has several buildings, a coal tower, an elevator up to the tower that carries coal on a conveyer belt, and 2 lifts that lower miners into the Earth.

Snow is lightly falling from the sky as I approach the foreman's office. Men pass me wearing helmets with headlamps on them, carrying pick axes and other tools. Some of them look at me curiously as I meander through them.

The building that houses the offices is small, probably only the size of my house. A woman that I assume is the secretary is standing at a filing cabinet when I enter. The door clangs behind me and I look up to see a bell attached to the top. At the sound the secretary looks up and smiles softly.

"May I help you?" She asks as she returns to the desk in the center of the room with a file. I nod as I remove my mittens and stuff them into my pockets.

"I would like to speak with Foreman Banks please," I say evenly. She nods and places the file down before pulling out a clipboard with a schedule on it.

"Foreman Banks is currently in a meeting would you like to take a seat and wait? He should be back in a few minutes." I nod as take the seat beside her desk.

The small room is much warmer than the outdoors, so I have to remove my coat after five minutes have passed. I watch the second hand of the clock over the door. I can hear it softly tick as it moves. After a few minutes the Foreman enters pulling his coat off and brushing snow off his hat. He places both of them on a coat rack by the door.

The secretary notifies him about some tasks and hands him a few stacks of paper and files. Then she nods in my direction, "Someone's here to see you sir."

Foreman Banks is a tall man, but he is thin and wiry. His face is wrinkled, but his hair is only partially grey. He's probably older than my father by about ten years. I think I remember hearing that he has been at the mines since he was about sixteen. His father was the Foreman before him.

"Hello, miss-" he pauses and I stand to introduce myself, "Miss Sidney Elmwood." My voice sounds smooth and controlled again, but my heart is beating furiously. At the mention of my last name he nods and beckons for me to follow him into his office. I oblige and carry my coat over my arm. He offers me a seat in front of his desk. He places the pile of tasks on his desk, leans back in his chair and fixes me with his gaze.

"Your father is very ill," he begins and clasps his hands together on his chest. I look at his fingers, long and laced together.

"He has been ill for quite some time. I think we both know that he shouldn't be coming to work any longer. I assume this is why you have come." I nod and look back into his eyes.

"My father and I only have each other to take care of, but I don't have a job. The mines are the only means by which we can survive right now." He nods in agreement, but then he shakes his head sadly.

"I'm sorry Miss Elmwood, but we can't have a miner holding up the crew like that any longer. We can't help your father." I see where he is heading with this, but I break him off before he tells me I should leave.

"No, you don't understand. I'm not here for my father to keep his job," He looks confused.

I swallow hard and try to calm my beating heart as I continue, "I want to take his place." Foreman Banks sits forward in his chair and places his hands on the edge of the desk. He eyes me carefully, looking at my entire physical stature.

"You're a woman," He says simply.

"And you're a man," I reply icily. _Again with the woman speech._

I know that there are several burly women who work here, I've seen them from time to time. It occurs to me that he thinks I am a weakling. My hands ball into fists as my fear is replaced with a simmering anger.

"I can hold a pick axe and I am more able bodied than some of the men you have down there," I say indignantly. He lets his eyes rake over me again.

"Stand up," he orders. My eyebrows nit together in confusion at his words. In reply, he makes a hand motion for me to rise.

I do it begrudgingly. He approaches me and eyes me carefully. He grabs my arms and inspects them. I start to feel a little ridiculous. He turns away and grabs a pick axe that has been leaning against the back wall. When I grasp it in my hands I don't flinch at the weight. I've held my father's multiple times.

Foreman Banks returns to his chair and rubs his chin with his right hand. It is clear that he is in thought, but I feel foolish standing there holding the axe like I am about to go into battle.

"I want you to start tomorrow. Bring a lunch and work clothes. Use your father's lamp and axe, we don't have spares at the moment. Fill out the papers with Gloria on your way out." I sigh in relief and lean the axe against his desk. Just as I am about to thank him he continues.

"There will be trouble from some of the men. I don't want any of that to reach this office. You hear?" His voice is stern and I nod several times.

"Keep your chin up kid and I better see a lot of progress from you." I nod again, this time almost feverishly. "Good, now get going. Be here by 8am."

I grab my coat off the chair, "Thank you Foreman." My voice sounds far less tense than when I was angered before.

I close his door behind me and go back to Gloria the secretary. I explain the situation to her and ignore her wide eyes. She shows me how to fill out the paperwork and once I have finished I return it to her. After I finish fastening my coat I give her a tentative smile and leave.

My heart seems to have leapt into my throat as I walk home. It is a sensation like having something stuffed inside there. I try to swallow it down, but it stays.

_Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life_, I think wryly as I walk slowly towards my street.

A life where the mine might collapse or explode. The snowflakes continue to fall around me slowly. I feel the wind biting at my cheeks, but my mind ignores the sensation and carries on with thoughts of tomorrow. Before I round the corner, I glance back at the opening to Lift 1.

The carrier of souls. Briefly the thought passes my mind that tomorrow my soul could be trapped in the Earth beneath me, whether I'm dead or alive.

_So many ways that a miner can die_, I laugh bitterly for a moment. I am no longer a coal miner's daughter from the Seam of District 12.

I am a miner. Tomorrow I might die.


	2. Chapter 2: Coal Dust

A/N: Thanks for reading so far. I really appreciate your reviews and comments.

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><p><em><strong>January 10th<strong>_

In the morning I brace my body against the cold and pull on dark blue pants. On the nightstand father has lain out one of his mine shirts. The dark grey material is the shade of the dismal cloudless sky.

I run my fingers softly over the name sewn into the left shoulder with black thread. Its raised under my fingertips, _S. Elmwood_, fitting really that father's first initial is the same as mine. After a few minutes I slip my arms into the shirt and breathe in the scent. It hangs to mid-thigh on me and I frankly feel a little ridiculous when I finish buttoning it.

As I enter the kitchen father tries to suppress a laugh. He helps me roll up the long sleeves and places his hands on my shoulders afterward. There is a distant look on his face.

"Remember what I told you about swinging the pick axe. Never swing it back, always start at your shoulder and try not to hit yourself." I nod at his words. His lips press a soft kiss into my temple and he sighs softly.

My eyes fall to the table where he appears to have packed his lunch pail for me. I shoot him a reproachful glance for going out of his way. He just smiles in return. I pull black work boots onto my wool-socked feet and lace them tightly. Father hands me my coat and mittens. After my clothing is secure I pick up the axe and pail.

"Don't forget to drink your tea. Rest throughout the day. I love you and I'll be home tonight," I try to keep my voice strong. Father straightens my jacket and nods at my words before he opens the door for me.

With one last glance I exit our home for my first day on the job. Across the street Gale Hawthorne is kissing his little sister Posy goodbye. I smile at them softly as I begin to battle the thick snow bank to reach the street.

By the time my boots reach the gravel of the road Gale has bounded across his lawn and is fast approaching. I walk at an even pace beside him, but neither of us speaks. I vaguely wonder if he has noticed that I am carrying my father's gear. He probably thinks that it is being returned to the mine yard.

"Sidney!" Father calls from the front porch.

Both Gale and I turn towards his voice. Father is waving something in his hand; it takes me a moment to realize that he is waving the hardhat. _Oh shit, that's right._ I knew I was forgetting something.

"You forgot your hardhat." Dad yells as he gives it another sweep through the air. I sigh and begin trudging back for it.

"Dad, it's freezing out here." I take the offending hat from his hands and order him back inside by the fire. I place it on my head and begin my journey once more.

Gale Hawthorne is staring at me from the street with an odd expression on his face. I kick through the snow bank, until I am back on the gravel road and start approaching him. I give him the, _what the hell are you looking at_ face as I pass him. He falls into step beside me and fixes his steel colored eyes on my face.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" he asks indignantly.

I look at him like he's crazy, because it is pretty damn obvious what I'm doing. I'm walking down the street on my way to work. Holding my father's pick axe and a pail of lunch. If the fact that I'm wearing a hardhat with a headlamp on it doesn't clue him in what would?

When his exasperated look doesn't go away I sigh and growl out a response, "I'm going to work. What the hell are _you_ doing?" A low growl escapes his lips as he grinds to a halt.

"What do you mean you're going to work?" His voice is deeper than I remember it being. Then again, I can't entirely remember the last time he has said more than a hello to me. Therefore, I am appalled that he has the audacity to question me about my choices.

I shoot daggers at him with my eyes, particularly at his broad chest and his deceptively handsome face. _Who the hell does he think he is? He gave up the right to be concerned about me a long time ago. Five years ago to be exact. _

"I'm going to work in the mines. It pays more than anything else in this god awful district. Well at least in the Seam. It's what my family needs," I say a little too loudly and an old woman who is passing by ogles me. It is hard to tell if she is flabbergasted by my job preference or the description of the district. I shoot her an angry sneer for good measure and she keeps hobbling down the road.

He glares at me, "You can't. You're a woman, it's too dangerous."

He's practically yelling at me now and I feel anger spill from every one of my pores, "What gives you the right to tell me what I can and cannot do Gale Hawthorne? You haven't spoken two words consecutively to me in over five years!" My nostrils flare as I yell back at him and pierce him with my silvery grey eyes.

I watch as his thick eyebrows shoot up almost to his hairline. Perhaps I've hit a nerve of guilt, because he doesn't respond. I take that as my cue to keep walking. I refuse to be late on my first day; Foreman Banks would be truly disappointed in me. As I approach the mine yard the bustle of men talking and milling about reaches my ears. Over the din I hear a whistle blow, indicating that it is 8am on the dot.

As I reach the edge of the yard I feel a few sets of eyes on me. One man whistles a cat-call at me, but I ignore it and walk towards the Foreman. He is standing with his arms crossed at the entrance to Lift 2. When he sees me a look of intrigue passes over his face.

I realize then, that he didn't think I would actually show up. I fix my face with a determined look, which isn't hard after my heated argument with Gale. I feel fired up and ready to battle with any man who steps in my way.

"Elmwood." He greets me and nods to the burly man next to him. I recognize him immediately as Hank Logan. Father used to drink with him on Saturday nights, before mother passed away.

I remember watching them sing songs as they walked with their arms around each other down the street. They were drunker than skunks and smelled just as bad, but they looked happier than a pair of peacocks. I smile slightly at the memory of watching them support each other on wobbly legs all the way home.

"Foreman Banks," I greet him and nod to his companion, "Mr. Logan." To this Hank's eyebrows raise and he mutters, "We go by first names here." I nod firmly again. Both men survey me critically for a moment.

Behind me another catcall cuts through the air, this time I turn to face Bristel Wernicke. He cocks a stance that is probably meant to be sexy with his pick axe slung up on his shoulder, and then he wiggles his eyebrows at me suggestively. I shoot him a menacing look which only seems to entice him more.

"Bristel." Hank's sharp tone cuts through the air like a knife.

The younger man smirks and meets his superior's eyes, "I didn't even say anything this time Hank." It's a well known fact that whenever he opens his mouth practically the only thing that comes out are snide remarks. I remind myself that Bristel's particular brand of humor is acidic. It fills you with a sense of putrid metal rather than cuddly warmth.

After several moments I see that a group of men has formed a circle where I am standing. I groan when I realize one of them is Gale, because I am getting the sinking feeling that this is my crew.

"Great," I mutter and roll my eyes. _Of course it would be my luck, having to deal with both Bristel and Gale every day. _Too bad I was thinking more fondly of Gale a few days ago, now he has really ruined it for himself. _What a jerk._

Foreman Banks abruptly claps his hands and announces his departure. For a moment I'm a little sad to see him go. He was probably the sole guy that supported my presence in this group, even if it was only mildly.

Hank looks around briefly, "Alright men. Meet the new recruit. Introduce yourself kid." His gaze falls on me and I want to whither beneath it. _Introduce myself? Ugh._ I take a big breath and glance around at the faces surrounding me. Nine men, who all seem a little agitated by my company.

I clear my throat loudly, "Sidney Elmwood. And _yes_, I am completely aware that I am indeed a woman. So let's get that verification out of the way." I add the last bit quite nastily and hope that they all get my point that there is nothing to discuss about the matter. One of the burlier men coughs and scratches his chin with the tip of his axe.

"So, what the hell are -" I don't let him finish his sentence. Instead I growl loudly in frustration and glare at all of them. Bristel is smirking at me again and I feel an itch in my hand that is just asking for me to throw my axe at his stubble ridden face. Alright, now I can't handle it anymore. Here comes the bloodbath, the anger flows off my skin like hot steam.

"This is my job and if you don't fucking like it take it up with the Foreman you assholes. Where's your respect for my father? I'm not letting him come here another fucking day! And if he's going to die in peace then I better have some way to make him comfortable. Some way to pay for his needs. He's dying of Black Lung! Black Lung!" I throw my arms around to create emphasis and continue screaming, "So shove your big fat hairy man pride up your asses and let's get to work."

One of the men blanches at my blatant disregard for ladylike vocabulary, I ignore him and throw one sneering remark at Bristel who looks entirely too happy about my outburst, "And you! If you so much as breath on me I am going to shove this pick axe so far down your throat you'll never be able to utter another sarcastic remark again." My eyes are bugging out of my head and I realize that my face is flushing with a blush. _Way to go, way to make a good impression. Way to act like the biggest fool they've ever met._ Hank saves face by laughing at me loudly. I stare at him in disbelief for a few moments, before some of the other men start laughing too.

"You heard the lady, let's get to work." He says loudly and claps a large palm on Gale's shoulder. Gale's icy stare releases me and I follow my crew toward the lift.

One of the men isn't laughing; instead he drags his eyes up and down my body in a way that makes my skin crawl.

He has brown eyes, which is strange for District 12, but his hair is a dark matted black. I follow the crew towards a building that sits just to the right of the mine. I notice the men taking their coats off as they enter, so I do the same. As I cross the threshold I realize that this is where belongings are kept.

Hank points me toward a cubby that must be my father's. _Elmwood_ is scrawled in his messy handwriting on a white piece of tape. Inside the cubby is an extra mine shirt and a can of ointment. I place my jacket and mittens over the items and turn around to see the brown-eyed man staring at me again.

He releases a low whistle, "You know with that body there _are_ jobs that pay more than this."

I gasp at him and my eyes widen as he continues, "There are a lot of things you could do with that pretty mouth. I'd be your first customer." I press my back into the cubbies behind me and I know my face is covered with disgust at his insinuation. I will never stoop as low as the girls who go to old man Cray's place and sell their bodies. A hot flush is saturating my cheeks as I try to formulate a response, but I don't have to because someone else responds.

"You're a prick Mortin," Its Gale. I'm relieved that he is sticking up for my virtue, but then I remember that he doesn't have the right to stick up for me anymore.

I glare at him and find my voice, "I can stick up for myself." He doesn't respond as he places his hardhat on his head and stalks towards the door. Once I'm certain that I have glared at Mortin hard enough I exit the room with father's gear.

Some of the crew is already entering Lift 2. The men start filing in. I blink at them for a few moments before I realize, _this is it_. A man in a black coat is standing by the control panel whistling a low tune. He looks at me with a confused expression as I shoulder my way onto the lift between Hank and Bristel.

When the last man enters an image crosses my mind of sardines packed tightly in a can. Someone releases a gravelly cough as the gate closes angrily. It groans with a clank as it is clipped shut. The crossing pattern of the iron spreads diamond shapes of light across the faces of the men. I grip my father's pick axe and pail tightly in my fists and try not to press my body too forcefully against Hank's rigid back.

A jolt causes my knees to buckle slightly. A glance at the gate confirms that the lift is beginning to shift downward. My eyes scan the approaching ground as it reaches eye-level. My heart clenches as I watch the sunlight begin to disappear.

Just before the darkness swallows us my eyes meet Gale's. They shine brightly at me. I notice how almond shaped they are, different from my own. For a moment I think I see pity in them. _Is my fear that noticeable?_

Headlamps begin to click on around me. I force my right hand to work the pail into my left palm, which is still gripping my father's axe. My small hand can barely hold both of the items together. Once free, the fingers of my right hand shakily reach for the switch on the back of the lamp. After two tries, the lamp clicks on and sheds a round circle of light into the chest of the man across from me. Noticing that my lamp is the only one shining this low, I glance around.

A feeling wells up inside my chest as I come to terms with just how small I am in comparison to all these men. Overwhelmed, I briefly close my eyes. With one long inhale of breath I attempt to stand up straighter.

The jostling of the lift alerts me that we have finished our ominous decent into the black abyss. As the gate groans open I let relief seep through me. Finally an escape from this squished feeling of my body pressed against the others. My nose is assaulted with unidentifiable smells. The air is thick and the coal dust is chalky. In this tunnel there are lamps dangling from a cord on the ceiling.

The man behind me presses his hand into my back and gives me a hearty shove, "Move it or lose it." His voice hisses at me. I muster the willpower to move my feet forward.

"Feeling scared yet, darling?" Bristel sneers. His shoulder brushes against mine hard as he passes me.

I glare at him and wish that I could stick my pick axe in his scrawny backside. "I'm not scared of anything," I grind my voice through my teeth and join Hank at the left wall of the tunnel. He nods at me simply and places his pail on a wooden board that represents a makeshift table. I follow suit. I get the feeling that Hank's not going to be the talkative type, but that's fine by me.

My eyes fall on a pile of large silver pails. They are rimmed with dark coal dust. Each man takes one and Hank starts giving instructions as he pulls a map of the tunnels out. He spreads the filthy map out on the wooden plank. It is riddled with black lines that resemble spider webs. Each line represents a tunnel. I gulp at the massive scale of it. Hank stabs his finger at a particular black vein.

"Alright boys we'll be picking the South vein today. The coal cars are at the end," He shoots his thumb over his shoulder toward the farther end of our tunnel. I chew the side of my cheek with my teeth and stare more closely at the spider web drawing before me. It is difficult to orient our exact location on it, but Hank appears to know what he is doing.

"I thought that coal cars were on tracks?" I murmur to Hank softly and he looks back at me while he folds the map back up and tucks it inside his shirt.

He responds softly to me, "This tunnel doesn't have that access. We've got to push it back up to the lift." He coughs and the men start filing down the tunnel by twos. Partners it appears and mine is Hank. I sigh in relief, because I feared that it would be one of the less desirable companions.

We walk silently until the coal cars come into view. The men seem to know who goes where, because they stake claim on portions of the wall. Hank and I walk to the farthest end where he sweeps his hand in a grand gesture, indicating that this lovely section of wall is our work zone.

I swallow hard again; time to actually use this pick axe. I hear the hard clank of metal on rock resounding. I turn to watch one of the men, Knox, swing his pick axe heavily. The muscles of his shoulders and back are stretching with the movement. When the axe hits the wall black jagged coal crumbles to the ground at his feet. I breathe a giant gulp of air and raise my pick axe up over my right shoulder. Both of my hands grip the stiff wooden handle. I swing all of my might forward, careful to keep the axe to the side so that it doesn't hit me in the face if it bounces back. My first attempt only yields a couple crumbling pieces.

Hank eyes my efforts and whispers to me, "Swing the tip slightly down at the last second and you'll get a good grasp of the stuff." Then I watch his arms swing the axe hard. The tip of the metal pierces downward on impact and a large shower of coal falls to the floor.

I try my hardest to imitate his movements. I meet some moderate success, but nothing like the men around me. We keep at this for a while and my arms and shoulders begin to ache with the effort. When a decent pile is at my feet Hank tells me to pile the coal into my bucket.

Once the buckets are full we carry them to the coal car. My arms buckle under the weight. I try to look like the bucket isn't the heaviest thing I have carried in my life. Sweat seeps down my face and into my eyes as I try to lift my bucket high enough to dump it in the car. It takes me two tries to balance it on the edge of the wooden frame before I dump it in. Black dust rises up as the coal slides into the car. It chokes me momentarily and causes my eyes to water. I cough roughly for a moment and someone slams a hard hand against my back.

"Close your mouth when you dump kid," the owner of the hard fist advises me.

A glance at the name sewn on his chest tells me that he is, _A. Cadwell._ I nod at him for the advice and he dumps his bucket in the car with one hand. He's probably the largest man on the crew. He looks about my father's age, slight wrinkles around his mouth and eyes with a few grey wisps in his hair.

He notices me eyeing him and introduces himself, "Artie. Your dad was my partner for a while." My lips form a soft smile and I shake his large hand.

The day continues. Stab the wall with my pick axe, watch the coal shatter to my feet, fill my bucket, carry it with all my strength, dump it, and repeat.

Most of the men are silent workers, but once in a while someone chats about this thing or that. Bristel does most of the talking, which isn't surprising. I roll my eyes as he regales Nat Tardive with a story about two ladies that wanted to date him at once. I find the story highly unlikely, but don't comment.

At midday, Hank pulls a watch from his pocket and yells down the tunnel, "Lunch break. Fifteen." Everyone slings their axes over their shoulders and file back toward the entrance to our tunnel.

I pick up my father's lunch pail and slide my back down the wall until I'm sitting with my legs folded beneath me. Inside the lunch pail is a chunk of bread, an apple, and a brick of cheese. A small thermos inside the lid is filled with lukewarm water. I drink it greedily and pour a few drops onto my fingers to rid them of coal dust and dirt. It doesn't work entirely, but it's good enough. I feel ravenous as I bite into the chunk of bread. My eyes nearly roll back into my head with delight. I never knew that stale food could taste this good.

Bristel plops his scrawny backside down beside me and begins loudly unwrapping some type of sandwich. I roll my eyes as he chews with his mouth open. Gale sits across from us with his long legs stretched out and crossed. As I chew my block of cheese happily I let my eyes scan the length of his body. He's definitely taller than he was as my childhood friend. His features have hardened into the face of a man. Almond shaped eyes, a smooth nose, and full lips contrast the sharp curve of his jaw and cheek bones.

_No wonder all the girls at school fawn over him._ I roll my eyes at the thought. If only they knew he was an antifeminist. It's a wonder he supports Katniss Everdeen at all. They hunt together in the woods, which is highly dangerous. She is most certainly a _woman_. I trail my eyes over his broad shoulders and the taught muscles of his forearms, visible under his rolled up sleeves.

Bristel releases a sharp laugh next to me, "I think you've got an admirer Gale." I almost drop my brick of cheese before I recover. A hot blush creeps across my face and neck.

"I wouldn't bother with him darling. Only eyes for our lovely victor. I, on the other hand am highly available." He smiles broadly at me and winks cheekily. I roll my eyes at him as I scoff, "I think there are many reasons you're not taken Bristel." He laughs heartily this time.

I swallow the last of my cheese and glance at Gale. His dark grey eyes trap me in a steely gaze for what must be the third time today. His face is covered in dark coal dust, but I'm sure that mine is as well. I feel like we are having one of the staring contest games that we played as children.

Too bad for him, I always won those. After a few moments his long lashes blink and he looks back at the food in his lap. His mother probably packed that food with love and care. That's something we still have in common, parents at home that care for us. Except now the roles are reversed and we are both the providers.

After fifteen minutes the crew begrudgingly returns to work. The day seems to slip away slowly. The motions are repetitive. I continue without complaint even though blisters blossom on my fingers and palms. My back and arms ache strongly, but the pain in my hands is far worse. One of the blisters bursts near the end of the shift. Puss leaks from my hand and the thick air stings the cut. As I continue to work, coal dust rubs into the cut and I think about the infection that will likely develop if I don't clean it soon.

Luckily Hank reaches for his watch again and yells down the tunnel, "Alright finish up your last buckets." I fill my bucket for the last time, careful to avoid picking up the coal with my broken blister ridden right hand.

We empty our buckets into the last coal car. Then five men begin pushing the first car toward the lift. I join the remaining four men behind the second coal car. My sore muscles scream in anger as I push my weight onto the car. Bristol and Hank's shoulders squeeze me from both sides.

It isn't clear whether my strength is helping at all, but somehow our car makes it two the lift. We watch the first group of men raise with their coal car and disappear into the ceiling. My group grabs their equipment when the lift returns for us. I can barely contain my excitement as we get onto the lift.

As the light of the aboveground world begins to enter the lift my body seems to lose some of the tension of being trapped like a rat. A smile spreads across my face. _I survived!_ I nearly shout the thought out loud.

When the gate creaks open my heart sings freedom. I contain the urge to run from the lift into the open air and kiss the banks of snow. The crew rolls the coal cars toward the conveyer and disperse. The cold air bites at my bare face and forearms. The sweat seems to be freezing on my skin. I walk toward the building that houses the cubbies. As I enter I see men removing their dirty shirts and replacing them with warm coats. I avert my eyes as Mortin peels his shirt off and shoots me a sour glance. I tentatively begin unbuttoning my coal covered mine shirt and the white undershirt beneath looks scarily white beside the grime of my clothing and body.

"You did good today kid," Hank assures me as he finishes fastening his coat a few cubbies down the way. I nod my thanks and button my own coat.

"Yeah, you're alright. Tell your old man Artie approves." Artie adds as I slip my aching blistered hands into my mittens. I smile softly at him because the more time I spend with him, the more he reminds me of my father. I nod my goodbyes and enter the cold weather.

As I walk home the pick axe seems to weigh a million pounds in my aching arms. I hook it over my shoulder like the other men and urge my feet to move forward. Halfway home I notice that Gale is walking silently a few paces behind me. His silent tread doesn't give him away, but I feel the prickle of his gaze on my back.

Once we reach our houses he stops and faces me. Unsure of his intent, I bate my breath for what will surely be some antifeminist remark about not returning tomorrow. He surprises me however when his low voice smoothly says, "You're right to do this for your father. You're better than those girls who sell themselves to Cray or the scum behind the Hob." I stare open mouthed at him for a moment before the high-pitched squeal of Posy Hawthorne approaches us.

"Gale, Gale, guess what! I learned how to tie my shoes today." She rushes towards us with her dark hair in little braids under her winter hat. Her bright smile of pride seems to melt something in her older brother's face as he bends down to inspect her work. Her little boot clad feet are sloppily laced, but she shines with satisfaction.

Gale lets out a low whistle to indicate that these are the most spiffily tied shoes he has ever seen. Posy looks as if she is going to buzz right out of them with excitement at his approval. Then she turns her bright eyes to me.

"Look!" She chimes and wiggles her right foot at me. I smile at her broadly and pat the top of her head affectionately.

"Wow Posy that is really great. Who taught you to do that?" I say as I inspect her shoes in mock excitement. She entwines her mitten hand in Gales and beams up at him.

"Gale showed me. I've been practicing all day!" She swings their connected arms back and forth happily. My heart skips a few times as I look back up at Gale who is smiling with pride at his tiny sister. Briefly I want to start crying because I think about mother and Jacob.

I choke back the feelings of how that could be me smiling down proudly at Jacob as he declares I taught him to tie his shoes. It will never happen though. I only got the chance to hold him one time. Gale seems to notice the reminiscent look on my face because he is eyeing me with pity again. I'll never have the sibling relationship that I was meant to have.

I bid them farewell quickly and go back to my house to wallow in self-pity. My father is dying of Black Lung. My mother and brother are dead from fever.

And I could die tomorrow in the mines.


	3. Chapter 3: Harvest Festival

A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read and review. It is very lovely and helpful!

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><p><em><strong>January 22nd<strong>_

I've been working at the mine for two weeks now and I'm still not used to the trapped feeling that I get when the gates to the lift close me in.

I'll never be used to the way that Mortin tries to eat me up with his eyes. Or the way that the men scoff at me when I make mistakes or can't lift heavy stones.

I've grown a little more used to Bristel's snarky comments though. He is more bark than bite on any given day. I sigh softly and rub my fingers over my temples to ease an ache. Father looks up when he hears the air escape my lips.

"Is everything alright Sid?" He has concern in his eyes and I hate that look more than anything so I smile immediately to fight it off. I nod at him and continue sewing the hole that I got in my pants yesterday.

I cherish my Sundays more than anything now. Relaxing with father on the couch in front of the fire is the highlight of my single day off. This day is no exception. Father hums softly between coughing fits as he reads one of the only books we own. The worn dog eared cover is testament that it is loved well.

I let my mind trail back to thoughts of my childhood. Being in such close proximity to Gale over the past weeks has plagued me with memories of my mother and the happier life I used to indulge in. As I continue sewing the hole, my mind drifts to a particular day in the meadow…

_**Eleven Years ago**_

"Ready or not, here I come," I giggle as I shout to my hide and seek competitor.

My forearms are pressed into the bark of the old willow tree at the edge of the meadow. I push off it with a stealthy catlike motion and immediately jump to the other side in search of my opponent. He's wizened up though; I won't be finding him in such close proximity again. I start scanning the underbrush around the meadow. As I approach a blackberry bush a loud rustle occurs from behind it.

I giggle profusely and create an air of mock confusion in my voice, "Oh where or where could Gale be?" The rustle continues again and I hear someone stifle a laugh. I jump around the bush, just as he tries to run in the opposite direction. I scramble to grab onto his ankle and we tumble forward into the tall grass and flowers, laughing.

"Gotcha!" I yell as he tries to squirm away. His laughter is making his face a deep crimson and he rolls around to kick at me with his other foot, flattening the grass around us. I shriek in protest as his foot kicks my side.

"No fair Gale! I already got you, you can't escape." My little fists clench his ankle tightly as I whine at him. After a few moments of struggle he gives up and reluctantly follows me back to the willow tree where his impending doom awaits him. He leans against it with his thin arms folded over his chest in indignation.

I stare at him expectantly with my little hands folded patiently in front of me. My green sundress is blowing in the wind with my long black hair. His gray steel eyes are peeking at me over the dust of freckles across his nose.

He makes a disgusted noise as he stares at me, "Do I have to?" I roll my eyes at him and ball my small hands into fists on my hips, like I've seen his mother do many times. I stamp my right food on the ground for good measure and glare at him.

"You promised Gale Hawthorne," I remind him. He sighs exaggeratedly, because seven year old boys do that sometimes. He presses his hands into balled fists and steps closer to me.

I close my eyes tightly as he presses his dry lips against mine for the briefest moment. I giggle as he pulls away quickly and stomps back to his place by the trunk of the willow. The branches are dangling down around us like long flowing hair, sweeping the grass in the breeze.

"I'm not going to do that again, blegh. Next time I get to pick the prize for the winner." Gale wipes his mouth on his sleeve several times, indicating that he is still disgusted by my cooties. I just nod at him and pick at the bark of the tree with my nails.

Suddenly a sharp pain shoots across my scalp and I turn to see that Gale is pulling roughly on a long strand of my hair. I yelp as he smirks at me before he turns to run. He yells over his shoulder as he sprints across the meadow away from me, "Last one to the Seam is a rotten egg."

I hike up my green dress with my hands and sprint after him as fast as my shorter legs will carry me, shuffling through the waist high grass. I laugh, my hair flies precariously behind me, and my dress sways with each step. I watch Gale's small head of dark hair bounce off in the distance and over the bend of the hill.

Gale is waiting for me at our street and has already caught his breath by the time that I finally reach him. He smiles at me devilishly as I place my hands on my knees and double-over in gasps of air. I am about to suggest that we play hopscotch when I notice a commotion at my front door.

Mrs. Hawthorne and Mrs. Pratchett are both crying on my front steps, grasping each other for comfort. Behind them the door is ajar. Gale and I stare at them with open mouths, our eyes fearful. We approach slowly, scuffing our shoes in the dirt.

Gale tugs on his mother's apron softly, "Mommy, what's wrong?" His voice is overflowing with concern and trepidation at seeing his mother cry. She looks through her tear stricken eyes and places her hands on either side of his small sun kissed face. Her expression is torn between intense love and sadness.

I stare at her over Gale's shoulder. When she catches sight of me a small gasp of strangled pain escapes her lips. She ushers Gale aside and pulls me into her warm arms. I notice that her chest is larger than my mothers, creating a soft pillow between us. She holds me tightly to her and runs her hands over my silky hair.

"Sidney, your mother is very ill. How about you and Gale have a sleepover tonight?" Her voice is shaky, but she smiles at me reassuringly. Mrs. Pratchett is running small circles over my back with her hand. I stare at her face with wide eyes. Tears are silently falling down her cheeks. I don't understand why they are crying about my mommy being sick.

"What's wrong with her?" I say, my voice rising in pitch.

I squeeze the fabric of Mrs. Hawthorne's apron between my hands and look intently at her with wide fearful eyes. The breeze is still licking at my hair and dress, swaying them lightly. I hear a soft moan from inside the house and watch Mrs. Everdeen through the gap in the door. She is rinsing a cloth in a large bowl of water. Her face is rinsed with sweat, her hair matted back. I watch the water drip from the cloth as she walks out of my line of vision. I'm only seven, but I know something is very wrong. Mrs. Everdeen's face is too serious. It scares me.

Mrs. Pratchett clears her throat, "She has the fever. So does the baby, it's a wonder that you don't have it too child." The fever has been sweeping through the district the past few weeks, many of my schoolmates are bed ridden. Mother has kept me out of the house; she says that fresh air and sunshine are good for me. A few tears fall down my face and I brush them away bravely.

"Where's my daddy?" I ask as I look back at the two women in front of me. They both frown slightly and glance toward the direction of the mine, a good enough response to me.

The four of us wait here for several hours. Gale and I draw figures in the dirt and split blades of grass between our fingers. On occasion Mrs. Everdeen calls Mrs. Pratchett in to help her with something.

I lie back and feel the prickle of grass under my arms and legs. I stare at the fluffy cumulus clouds in the sky and imagine shapes like birds, hearts, and trees. Gale grows impatient and wanders off to play. Mrs. Hawthorne eventually herds me to her house and I watch her feed baby Rory, before she makes dinner.

At quarter after eight my father returns from the mines with Mr. Hawthorne. At quarter past nine I am nestled into bed beside Gale and he is kicking my shins under the blankets, telling me to shove over.

He whispers silly stories to me, but my worry for mother and Jacob keeps me from laughing. At ten I wake up in the dark bedroom and hear Mr. Hawthorne soothing his wife. I crawl over Gale, who is snoring softly and creep toward the bedroom door, which has been left open just a crack. I see them at the kitchen table. Her face is pressed tightly into his chest and her back is quaking as she sobs softly.

My shoulder hits the door, causing it to creek open slightly. A pair of large grey eyes watch me wordlessly. Mr. Hawthorne clears his throat and beckons me forward. I softly walk toward him as he rocks his wife in his arms. He reaches his large hand for my face and cups my cheek. A hot fear is creeping up my chest and throat.

"Sidney, your little brother did not make it." His voice is much deeper than my daddy's and I hear pain in it. I begin to cry profusely and he grasps me with his free arm, pulling me into a three person hug. I wail and say I want to go home.

At quarter past eleven there is a knock on the door. I am nestled in Mrs. Hawthorne's lap on the couch. She is rubbing my hair soothingly, the smell of her soft skin assaulting my senses. My eyes dance with the flames of the fire in the hearth, lulling me softly. The Hawthorne's home is nearly identical to mine and that keeps some of my fear at bay.

Mrs. Hawthorne hugs me tighter to her chest as her husband rises to answer the visitor. The grim face of Mr. Pratchett glows in the soft firelight. He whispers to Gale's father and they exchange a few pointed looks. With one look at her husband's face, Mrs. Hawthorne begins to sob into my hair.

My small body sways as she rocks me back and forth. I begin to cry because I think I know what this all means. I don't want them to say anything to me. I want nothing more than to go home. I want nothing more than to crawl in bed with my mommy.

In the days that follow I play games with Gale in the meadow, but only half-heartedly. Other children watch me and whisper to each other. They know my mommy is dead. I cry at night when I hear Daddy weeping in the kitchen. I cry and Daddy works in the mines.

We grieve until winter comes and the well of our tears has dried up with the frozen pipes in our house.

_**January 23rd**_

Katniss and Peeta will be going on their victory tour in a few days time. At work Bristel pesters Gale about the lovebirds. He doesn't respond though and things continue as they have.

The only difference is that Gale and I walk in silence on the way to and from work each day. It really isn't my business to ask him if he is alright, so I don't. It is fairly plain to see though, that he is in love with her. The whole charade is tearing him to bits.

I feel terrible for him, because it will be mandated that we watch the couples' travels through the districts. It will be broadcast nightly in the square. I will stay with father and watch it from home, because I don't want him to travel into town in the cold.

_**February 1st**_

Today is the Harvest Festival in celebration of the joint win for the District 12 tributes. In town there will be a big feast and all the businesses, including the mine are closed for the day. Parcels of food have been given to all the families in the entire district. These gifts will arrive once a month for the next year.

In the Seam the children are proudly waving canned goods in their hands as they run in the streets. I watch them through the window, smiling and laughing. Our street is one of the last to receive the rations. A peacekeeper delivers a large parcel to our door in the afternoon. Father thanks him profusely and closes the door gently behind the man.

I stare at the large brown parcel with wide eyes for several moments before father presses me forward to open it. I am overcome with tears as I pile the contents on the kitchen table. Father hugs me tightly as we count the gifts and recount them. We excitedly read the labels of cans, boxes, and bags.

The shiny cans appear foreign as I file them in the cupboards; their colorful labels look strange against the dim colors of the kitchen. Father tucks a giant bag of rice into a low drawer and coughs a few times.

"We'll eat like kings for weeks," he can barely contain the smile in his voice as he turns to me. I agree with him and hug him again for good measure.

We stand at the window watching children run back and forth in the snow, waving anything that they can carry from the parcels. Father tells me about the last Harvest Festival that occurred, when Haymitch Abernathy won his Hunger Games. I listen mildly as I scrub a pot in the kitchen sink. I have never seen Haymitch's games broadcasted on Capitol reruns, which is strange. I ponder the thought for a moment as my hands lather soap over the pot with an old sponge. Once the pot is rinsed and dried I sit with father in front of the fire and read for a while.

"After the festival will you be going to the fiddle dance?" Father asks over the top of his book. I am lying on my back across the couch, so I have to move my book to the side to look at him across the room. I chew the inside of my cheek for a moment.

"Maybe," I say and return to the pages of my book. Father laughs softly.

"There probably won't be another dance for a while," he states simply. I hum in response and flip to the next page. Father doesn't seem like he is quite done with the conversation though. He sets his book open on his lap and looks at me with a little mirth in his face.

"Come on Sid, you should go. Get out of this house. A day off from the mines, you might as well live it the best way you can." I press my book to the side and look at him again. He's probably right. An idea presents itself as I look at his pale face.

"You know, it might be good for you to get out too." I smirk at him and he realizes that his excuse for me to go works on him as well. _I am only going if he comes too_, I think.

"Well then, we might as well go." He smiles broadly and I just roll my eyes, because I was hoping he wouldn't say that.

At five o'clock we bundle ourselves in warm clothing and walk toward the town square. Father insisted that I wear one of mother's old dresses, because it would be better to dance in. It is slightly warmer today than it has been in the past few days, yet the air still feels too cold as it swipes at my bare legs. I watch the ground as I walk, keeping my eye out for patches of ice. My dress shoes won't do me any favors if I step on a smooth patch of it.

Father greets passersby, cracking jokes with friends and smiling at acquaintances. He places a protective hand on my back and ushers me through the crowd in the square as we arrive. Somehow the snow in the square has been removed from the cobblestone streets. I look around and notice that most of the shops have beautiful banners and winter plants, something only for this occasion.

I have never seen this many people in the square on a day that didn't involve the reaping. People are spread across the surrounding streets chatting happily. I notice a particularly loud crowd of people at the door to Mellark's Bakery. Mr. Mellark is dressed in a suit showing the onlookers a large cake that he has made for the ceremony honoring Katniss and Peeta at the Mayor's house.

In front of the justice building a complex pattern of tables have been arranged for the Harvest Festival feast. The large mass of tables and chairs combined with the residents of the district make the square overflow. Hank approaches us, greeting me and starting a cheerful conversation with father. For a moment I am distracted by the fact that Hank is saying more than one sentence in contrast to his usual non-talkative nature. However, he and father are gladly joking about something.

I turn my gaze to the tables where we will eat a plethora of Capitol made foods. A large group of about one hundred people dressed in white tunics are placing dishes and cutlery at each chair. Some of the people have outlandish colored skin or hair. I watch a girl with purple-tinted skin as she folds cloth napkins into knots and places them on the plates.

After I lose interest in watching the strange Capitol workers my gaze catches sight of one of my crew mates. Nat Tardive is carrying a little girl who looks like a female replica of him. I follow him with my eyes for a few moments. _Of course he would have a family, he must be nearly thirty_; I consider this thought for a moment. His wife smiles at him sweetly as she grasps the hand of an older child.

It feels strange seeing him void of his work clothes and not covered completely in coal dust. His daughter grasps his neck with her thin arms and points at the giant cake in Mellark's window. For a moment I pretend I am looking at the cake through her eyes, seeing something magnificent.

"So kid, you happy about the day off?" Hank asks, drawing me back into the conversation. I shake my head lightly to get myself back on track.

A broad smile spreads across my face, "Of course. Can't go a day without seeing you though apparently." He laughs heartily and claps a large hand on my father's back, which causes him to cough roughly a few times. Hank looks guilty after that.

"Hey, Syler your daughter gives the boys some pretty stiff competition these days. Got a strong will and a good set of working hands." I fight the urge to blush at the praise. Dad smiles at me widely. Then he nods happily.

"She's even gotten the better of Bristel a few times," Hank says as he laughs, shaking his head at something. He's probably remembering my argument with the man a few days ago, after I was sick of hearing him pester Gale over Katniss. I smirk as the man in question approaches us moments later.

"Syler!" Bristel yells excitedly as he greets my father with an exaggerated handshake. He turns to me with a snarky grin, "Fancy seeing you here darling. Save a dance for me, I know you can't resist." I roll my eyes at him. The four of us laugh. Since I've decided he's pretty harmless I tell him I will humor him. I promise one dance and tell him he better keep his hands to himself. We laugh once more and then the speaker system in the square squeals on with a resounding buzz.

The mayor is standing on the steps of the Justice Building wearing a striped blue suit. He beams at the crowd. His face is filled with pride as he reads a speech about the 74th Hunger Games, the star-crossed lovers, and the parcels that will be given to us on the first of the month until the next game period. At the mention of the last part several people in the crowd whoop for joy. I smile to myself, because even if the 'star-crossed lovers' bother me, the fact that children won't go hungry for a year is irresistible.

Katniss and Peeta make an appearance, dressed in the best clothing I have ever seen. It's strange to see them displaying such public affection, when in reality no one actually saw them together during the time before their tour. Katniss smiles adoringly at Peeta as he grasps her hand. He gives an eloquent speech about the games and our district.

Afterward they announce that the festival has begun. The crowd bursts into a round of cheers and I find myself letting out an excited burst of noise. The silent Capitol attendants usher families into seats. My table includes a lot of people that I don't know, but a few chairs down Hank is sitting with his wife across from Knox and his brood.

The servers bring giant trays of various foods. I feel like an excited child as the options are passed around. I try small spoonfuls of as many different things as I can. Some of the dishes are reportedly Katniss and Peeta's favorites. I especially enjoy a dark drink called Hot Chocolate. Father laughs when I get a chocolate mustache above my mouth. I make a goofy face at him before I wipe it away from my lip.

When everyone looks fit to burst open Peeta and Katniss stand on the steps to the Justice Building and thank everyone for celebrating with them. I watch them walk away toward Victor's Village and momentarily wonder how they feel about this entire hodgepodge with the television crews. The camera men remain and film families who are dressed in their best outfits. Most of them are merchants. The tailor is currently being filmed with his family, discussing Capitol clothing.

The silent Capitol workers are moving tables aside and I see several men from the Seam setting up their instruments on the steps. Children are jumping around excitedly, waiting for the music. A fiddle player starts a bouncy jig and people start shedding their coats to dance freely. The fiddler is joined by a pipe and a banjo. I laugh as people swing each other in large moves. An opportunity like this doesn't present itself often, but most people in the district know a number of different traditional songs and dances. The camera crews begin filming the dancers, moving through the people.

Bristel approaches me waggling his eyebrows suggestively and laughing, "How about that dance darling?" I moan and Father tells me to just get up there already. I slide my thick coat off my shoulders, but leave my scarf around my neck. Father takes my coat and mittens and laughs as Bristel bows in front of me like a 'gentleman'.

I curtsy in my scarlet dress and adopt a Capitol accent, "Now remember Bristel darling, keep your hands to yourself or I'll have to shove my pick axe down your throat like I said I would."

He removes his coat and piles it with mine beside father. He's wearing a long-sleeve blue dress shirt with tan pants, _probably an old reaping outfit_. We walk toward the crowd of dancers and wait until a song that we are positive we know all the steps to. It's a tipsy tune with a lot of banjo and pipe parts.

Bristel seizes my hands and I feel our calluses rub against each other. He swings me left and right before we kick our legs in a complex little step. It turns out that Bristel is actually an impeccable dancer, which I find to be ridiculous all things considering.

For once one of his girl-catching stories could actually have a grain of truth. I decide that dancing with him is in fact immensely fun. As he swings me back in to repeat the steps, I release a burst of laughter, because he's making goofy faces at me as I roll back towards him.

When the tipsy tune is done we move out of the way for the next song. My heart is racing from all the quick movements and my skin feels heated. I grasp at my scarf to free my hot neck. I throw it over Bristel's shoulder and tell him to hold it for me as I shove him back to another dance. He laughs deeply as I grasp his hands and lead him into the steps of a square dance.

"I knew you couldn't resist another dance with me," He shouts as we clap our hands.

I just give him a knowing smirk as we switch partners and twirl in a large circle. This dance involves a lot of twirling and exchanging dance partners. My skirt flares out in a circle as a tall man circles me to the left. I am passed to an older man who greets me with a, "Hey-o!" and twirls me to the right.

After a few more claps, twirls and switches, I am back in Bristel's arms. I laugh profusely as I see Artie and Knox over his shoulder making exaggerated faces of shock and awe. When we twirl Bristel catches sight of them and laughs along with me.

After the song is finished we join the two men from our crew and I retrieve my scarf from his shoulder. Now I feel flushed with heat all the way to my bones and it amazes me that I can feel so content in the chill air. I hug the two men from my crew, because I am suddenly in a vibrant mood. They at first look confused, but laugh and embrace me in return.

Everyone is well fed and happy today. I lead the three of them back to father who is discussing the price of wood with our neighbor Mr. Pratchett. I sidle into a seat beside him and stretch my legs out, clicking me shoes together. I appreciate the loud hum of talking, laughing, and music that is bouncing off the storefronts around us. I've never felt this alive and festive.

After some time one of the musicians calls out that he's looking for a lovely lady from the Seam to sing an old mountain tune. Father presses his palm into my shoulder and urges me to go. When they see his action, my crew mates become livewires of excitement. They grab me by my limbs and I find myself forced into my crew member Jim's arms. He carries me over his shoulder as the rest hoot and holler. The soft tissue of my stomach pinches on his sharp shoulder. I try to beat my fists on his back, but my protests go seemingly unnoticed by the man. The boisterous cheers of my co-workers and some of the people, who know me around town, edge the crowd on. I give up on my objection and go limp for the rest of the 'ride' to the steps. I watch the stone cobbles on the ground as we move, because the only other thing I have to look at is Jim's behind and that's not really appealing.

When Jim drops me on my feet beside the fiddle player I suddenly feel massively nervous. The mass of the crowd before me swells. Many eyes are watching me expectantly. The fiddle player smiles and asks me my preference. I think about mother and the songs that she used to sing while she did housework. Her favorite tune was about life changes, it was particularly sad in the context of the reaping.

A song that's words could indicate that growing older was a loss. A song that could easily say this is a rebellious thought. I will stand on this mountain and watch everything fall apart, you will remember me here.

The fiddle player nods at me before whispering to the banjo player. For a moment they discuss whether performing the song is a good idea or not. They finally look at me expectantly. I push back forcefully at the fear that is rumbling in my stomach. My eyes scan the crowd and fall on father who is smiling brightly in encouragement. I grasp the skirt of the dress in my hands and nod at the musicians, who begin to strum the tune softly.

"Took my love and I took it down  
>Climbed a mountain and I turned around<br>And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills  
>Well, the landslide brought me down<p>

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?  
>Can the child within my heart rise above?<br>Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?  
>Can I handle the seasons of my life?<p>

Well, I've been afraid of changin'  
>'Cause I've built my life around you<br>But time makes ya bolder, children get older  
>I'm getting older too, well<p>

Well, I've been afraid of changin'  
>'Cause I've built my life around you<br>But time makes ya bolder, children get older  
>I'm getting older too, well, I'm getting older too<p>

So take this love and take it down  
>Yeah, and if you climb a mountain and you turn around<br>And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills  
>Well, the landslide brought you down<p>

And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills  
>Well maybe, well maybe, well maybe<br>The landslide will bring you down"

A hushed silence fills the square as the words begin pouring from my lips. Father stands in surprise and presses his hand tightly to his heart. I can see that he can't believe I am singing such a possibly treasonous song in the presence of the entire district, in the presence of Capitol officials and camera crews.

I let the words engulf me and sing them smoothly. It feels like warm liquid is sliding through my body, squashing my fears. Some of the people closest to me have their mouths agape. It is hard to determine if it is from the choice of song or my singing. I briefly notice the camera crew inching toward me from the right, aiming at my face in a close-up.

Father and the crew are staring wide-eyed. Artie and Bristel exchange a strange look with each other. Over father's shoulder I see Gale. His face is tight and his eyes are boring straight into mine. I finish my song with one final gentle line. For a moment no one moves. The camera man closest to me gets so near to my face that I think he can see the flecks of color in my irises. I swallow hard and feel a blush tingeing my cheeks.

Gale is still holding my gaze as he raises his hands and begins to clap loudly. The crew and several others join him almost immediately. The sound becomes louder until the entire mass of onlookers is clapping loudly. Several people press three fingers to their lips and raise them in my direction.

The fiddle player and flute abruptly begin a lively jig. I swallow hard and press my feet down the steps towards the men of my life. When I reach father he grabs my face between his hands and presses a few kisses to the top of my head. I close my eyes and feel some of the men patting me on the back lightly.

"What were you thinking?" Father says lightly. I look into his worried eyes and then around at the faces of my crew. Nat and his family are standing with them now. His daughter is smiling up at me softly. I tilt my head and stare at her for a moment. She's a beautiful child, young and innocent.

"Of this," I sweep my palm toward Nat's daughter with her round innocent face, "I was thinking of purity, life, and what got Katniss and Peeta home. I felt so happy with the celebration and I let it well up inside me, but then I remembered what this all was for. All that was lost to get this happiness here." Father looks like he is fighting the urge to press his hand over my mouth.

I glance around to see if anyone other than the crew has heard my treasonous speech. I swallow a thick lump in my throat, because my little demonstration will surely be televised in the Capitol. _Will I be punished?_

Bristel clears his throat and tries to smile at me, "Darling, you're our own little personal mine canary. You just became infinitely more beautiful to me, by the way." I release a quiet laugh and run the fingers of my right hand through my long hair nervously.

The men start chatting softly. I turn to watch the dancers spinning in a crisscross pattern. I feel someone's shoulder and arm pressed against mine and turn my head to Gale, who has settled into the space beside me. He is watching the dancers. His clothing indicates that he was hunting in the woods. I can also faintly smell blood and fur. The scent is swirling with a mixture of pine in the fabric of his jacket. He removes it and slings it over a chair at the nearest table. I watch his movements as he returns to my side.

"Dance with me?" He asks softly. My gaze travels from his outstretched hand, up his arm, to the planes of his chest. I bite my bottom lip hesitantly between my teeth.

"Shouldn't you be celebrating with Katniss?" I ask tentatively. He shakes his head softly and doesn't give me a verbal response. I move my eyes from his chest to his face; his eyes are a deeper tone of steel than usual. He doesn't want to be celebrating right now, because he hates the entire idea of the games, the capitol, and the love-affair between his best friend and the baker's son.

"You don't like dancing, you never have." I muse, thinking about his childhood hatred of it. The right corner of his mouth hitches up at my words.

Without a further exchange he folds my right hand into his left and leads me towards the dancers. The song is an easy breeze of a tune that only involves soft strokes of the fiddle, a slower song than the lively square dances from earlier.

He locks me into his gaze as he sweeps me out into a circular dance. My scarlet dress billows around my legs as he glides me around. I can't tear my eyes away from his, even when he steps on my foot heavily. _He still doesn't like dancing_, I think momentarily.

He is not especially good at it, but his arms carry me about with a languid ease. The dance reminds me of two birds sideling around each other and hesitantly brushing themselves together, coaxing each other into a gentle familiarity. I let Gale entice me with the long sweeping movements of his arms, gliding me into fluency with him.

When my dress flows delicately between us it feels like I am indeed a bird and he is tousling my feathers playfully. At the end I feel his expert hands grasp my shoulders and back, dipping me in a low sweep until my hair brushes the ground tenderly.

Bristel chooses this moment to sidle over and loudly profess that it's his turn to prance me around once more. Gale releases me into his hands and I find my eyes glued to his as Bristel floats me off in a new direction for another lively song.

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><p>AN: It has been pointed out by several people that there are in fact female mine workers. This is true; Ripper for example, only has one arm in the books because she lost the other one in some type of mine accident. Thus, I promise to incorporate women into the mine on some of the other crews; therefore, making Sidney's crew seem like the antifeminist bunch. Also, the song that is showcased above is entitled "Landslide", the version that I was thinking of for this story was done by the Dixie Chicks. Their version has a nice southern feel to it with some instruments that I think would be found in District 12. The dances that are featured are some square dances or do-si-dos with a mixture of other things. Thanks again.


	4. Chapter 4: Canary

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews. It is really fun reading them. I am happy that everyone enjoys this story and my characters. It is fun to write about Sidney and her crew, but sometimes it might take a while to get a chapter up. So, please have patience.**

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><p><em><strong>February 3rd<strong>_

Despite the fact that it was warmer on the day of the festival the air today is crisp and cold. My knees are almost knocking together with the intense shivering of my body.

I stare at the wood pile behind the house for a good fifteen minutes in the dim morning light. _This can't possibly be all that's left._ There are four decent sized pieces of firewood, but I struggle with myself trying to remember if there had been more than that yesterday. There is a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that someone has been stealing wood from us for some time.

I glance toward the neighboring house and see that their wood pile looks just as meager as mine. It begins to snow lightly as I kneel down to retrieve the last bundle of wood. My mind is racing through a million thoughts. With the impending weather, which is sure to get colder, _will we freeze to death?_

After I place the wood beside the hearth, I throw one of the heftier logs on the fire that I started earlier this morning. I have been up for quite some time, preparing my meals for the day and cleaning the kitchen.

The day after the festival the Capitol sent word to Forman Banks that they were extending work hours. Twelve hour shifts until further notice. It's nothing new for the Capitol to expect extensions on back breaking work. I sigh and glance at the clock beside the door. I have packed meals for both lunch and dinner today. My lunch pail is stuffed to the brim.

I will return from work in an all consuming darkness tonight. With the impending cold weather the street lamps will surely be out, in order to save generator power. Thankfully I have been walking with Gale, so I won't have to worry about making it home in the dead of night.

A more troubling thought is what I will do about firewood. Today is Friday, so we'll be receiving our biweekly check from the mines. It will be meager and I have already planned to utilize it to purchase some medicine for father. I feel torn at the seams over what I should do.

Father needs the pain medication very badly and it is extremely expensive. However, if we don't purchase some wood for the fireplace then we will surely freeze or get sick. As if he subconsciously is indicating how much he needs the medicine, my father starts coughing in his sleep. I sigh loudly and stare at the bedroom door. He is probably shaking violently.

I approach the room and knock delicately on the wooden door. Father's rough coughs continue as I approach his quivering form. His face is turning a lush shade of purple with lack of oxygen and the effort to clear his lungs.

I gingerly place my hands on his shoulders and try to make my voice soothing as I stir him, "I am going to work now. You should get some breakfast. Drink lots of fluids, sit by the fire." I instruct him as he blearily focuses on my face.

My heart feels heavy in my chest as I try not to focus on the exertion written across his features. After a few moments of raspy throat clearing, my father nods and pats my forearm to let me know that I can go.

I press a soft kiss to his temple and finish readying myself for the long day ahead. Yesterday was the first twelve hour shift. It was brutal. At half past six I felt like I was going to collapse from exhaustion. My arms were becoming too heavy to swing my axe and I remember Hank pressing a large hand to my shoulder to stop me. He forced me to take a break and practically dumped his remaining water down my throat.

The men had all looked exhausted and disheartened when we left the mine yard last night at half past eight. Hopefully, today I will be able to last the entire twelve hour shift. I have packed two containers of water and as much food as I think I could afford to ration.

I emerge from the house moments later, still pondering the intricacies of Capitol manipulation and my physical inability to work a twelve hour day. Gale is knelt down in the center of the road, tying the laces of his right work boot. He nods a greeting to me as I approach and falls into stride alongside me. I see there is a dark cropping of stubble on his jaw and wonder briefly if he is thinking of growing a beard to protect his face from this chilly weather.

Father always grows a beard in the winter months. He always tells me it's to keep his face warm, but I suspect it is also because he saves money from not buying shaving cream.

"Gale, I've been thinking," I say softly as we walk through the brisk snowflake filled air.

He scoffs, "You thinking…that can't be good." I hit his arm hard, but I mean for it to be playful. He must think it is, because he smiles widely in response. I temporarily feel distracted by watching the event; his smiles always seem so evasive. This one is generous though. I shake my head and shift my lunch pail in my hand.

"Anyway, I was thinking about maybe selling some more of my mother's old dresses to make a quick buck. I know that you are familiar with the Hob. I was wondering if you could take me there." Gale grunts and chews his cheek for a moment. He stops abruptly and leans in close to me, so that the hot misty puffs of his breath spill across my cheeks in the cold air.

"You shouldn't talk about illegal trading places in public, but yeah you could probably get a better price there." His voice is barely above a whisper. I glance to the left and see that he has dropped his voice low because there is a group of Peacekeepers huddled at the corner about twenty feet away.

"You need money that bad?" Gale asks, causing my eyes to return to his face. He is hovering even closer now. I can feel the heat of his chest seeping off his jacket. I nod grimly and look down at my shoes.

"Medicine…and we're out of firewood. Someone's been filching it." A slight look of anger coats his features at the thought of a neighbor stealing from me. He makes a disgusted noise and continues walking toward the mines. I fall back into step with him and we finish our journey in silence.

It's awful to think that someone I know could be taking from me, but here in the Seam, in the dead of winter people become desperate. Just last winter the O'Malley's were starving to death when a huge snowstorm hit. It lasted nearly a week and by the end all three daughters were visiting Old Cray.

_**One Year Ago**_

The intense wind and snow has let up quite considerably and I bundle myself tightly to venture in to town. I am going to take out tesserae. More than anything I wish that I could avoid it, but the harsh winter has been difficult. The extra grain and food stores are worth selling your soul to the Capitol. At least to anyone who lives in the Seam, probably to some of the merchant families too.

As I trudge through the large snow drifts I feel like I am marching to my death. Marching to sign my life away in the form of extra slips on reaping day. This is my last year, so I might as well take my chances. It won't get worse than this. I'll be eighteen when this year's reaping is over and inelligible next year.

If I don't get chosen as a tribute this year, then I am free from ever having to fight for my life on a televised broadcast. However, the circumstances of the Seam will keep me fighting for my life regardless. Fighting poverty and sickness. Someday, in the not too distant future, having mouths to feed beside mine and my father's.

I trip slightly over a particularly large snowbank and some of it catches in the rim of my tall boots. It is cold and melts instantly into my legs. I curse under my breath at the frigid feel of the liquid seeping down my shins. I angrily swipe my mitten hand at the tops of my boots, trying to scoop out the remaining snow. I hear the chatter of women's voices, murmuring through the trees at my left.

The shiver that runs up my spine has nothing to do with the cold liquid in my boots.

I am about one hundred paces from Head Peacekeeper Cray's house. The thin layer of pine trees beside his backyard slightly block the women from view. Immediately I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. There's three times the normal amount of women here, huddled in a jagged line that leads to his back door.

I feel disgust in every limb. I find myself hovering closer to the trees and peering at the women in line. Several of them have been coming here for years. My eyes fall on the oldest O'Malley girl, Ahna. She is tenderly holding her younger sisters, both of whom are crying profusely.

Bile is rising in the back of my throat, because the youngest one is only thirteen. _Are they really this desperate?_ Sending two young girls to be deflowered by a man four or five times their age?

My eyes scan the rest of the women. It has been a week since the blizzard started and the snow is so high in Cray's yard that many of the women look like they have been cut off at the waste. They are shivering in the high snow drifts and standing close together for warmth.

As my eyes drift along the line I see several girls my age and younger. My chest feels tight and tears are prickling my vision, threatening to fall. This is revolting. Another reason for me to hate the Capitol and the injustice of poverty that permeates my life.

Suddenly the back door opens with a bang and I see Olive Knight tumble out clutching her coat around her frail body. She doesn't look up at the women around her, she just lets her eyes skim the ground and lead her home. A widow, with four mouths to feed. She's been here before.

Cray clears his throat loudly and my gaze returns to him. I clutch the nearest pine branch between my hands angrily. His chest is bare and I can see the large round stomach that indicates how well fed he is. His gray hair is tangled. The heat emanating from his house causes the air near the door to shimmer with steam as the bitter cold mixes with it.

"I'm tired, only one more tonight." He says in an air of annoyance.

Several of the women shove forward, fighting each other for position. More than a few of them begin unbuttoning their jackets in what must be an attempt to show their bodies off. They are all so thin; I don't know how he doesn't feel guilty about this.

Ahna O'Malley runs forward and several women shout at her angrily. They have been nearly freezing to death in this line for hours. Their faces and bare hands are tinted with chapped red skin. I feel grateful for my holey gloves. Ahna ignores the irritated women around her and addresses Cray with a thunderous raspy voice.

"My sisters are both virgins. You can take one of them to bed if you give us a good amount of coin." Her voice doesn't even shake as she says this. She stands tall and ignores the gasp of some of the women. Cray eyes Ahna for a moment and I see that he recognizes her face. I wonder briefly if she too was a virgin before she came begging at his doorstep.

The two younger O'Malley girls walk shakily to stand beside their sister. The middle girl looks like she might faint; she is grasping her younger sister's shoulders tightly. The thirteen year old, who is crying violently, refuses to look up at Cray. Her thin body barely has breasts and Cray is still eyeing her with a strange look of hunger. I feel more disgusted than ever, because he can look at a child with such sexual desire.

"Both of them, for one hundred coins," Cray says as he bargains with Ahna.

For a moment she looks apprehensive. I know this is an outrageous amount because I have seen what little handfuls of coin the women walk away from here with. Some of the women at the back of the line are already leaving, because they don't have the willpower to fight for the money. One of them catches my frightened gaze as she meanders back toward the Seam. Her face is hollow and sad.

"For two hundred," Says Ahna, "I come with them though." Cray only thinks about it for a moment before he opens his door wider. Ahna whispers to her sisters and clutches them tightly. The younger one is refusing to go. Several of the women in line are crying now. They are mothers and sisters.

"We need this Verity, I'll be with you." Ahna is shaking her sister slightly.

After a few tense moments, the three girls walk up the steps and disappear into the house. My chest is tight as I think about how I used to sit with Ahna at lunch before she became friends with several Seam boys who were troublemakers. She was always fun to chat with, we'd play tic tack toe on spare pieces of paper while we discussed all sorts of things.

Now I've lost it, I vomit the contents of my stomach into the snow beside me as I grip the pine branches. My stomach is squeezing violently for several moments, until nothing else comes up.

The red chunks look vile and bright against the clean white snow. The smell of pine is heightened around me. _Thirteen years old! _I scream it in my head over and over again. Verity has probably never kissed a boy or even barely thought about them in a sexual way. I'm seventeen and the only boy I have ever kissed was Gale Hawthorne and that was so long ago, so innocent that it doesn't count.

_**Present Day, still walking to the mines - February 3rd**_

I try to push the thought of the O'Malley sisters from my mind as Gale and I enter the coal covered snow of the mine yard. Verity O'Malley died of pneumonia only a month after I watched her disappear into the beast's lair. The shock of it nearly drove her middle sister mad, I never learned her name. I suspected though, that part of her madness was from losing herself in the darkness of Cray's bedroom.

The mine yard is bustling, despite the early hour. One of the crews is already entering Lift 1. Gale and I head straight for the building with our cubbies. When he opens the door a gust of hot air boils across our bodies. My nose is assaulted with multiple smells. Most of it is the dingy stench of sweat. I wrinkle my nose and nod a hello at a few people.

"Morning darling," Bristel says cheerily as I place my belongings in my cubby.

My hands feel frozen, even though I wore my mittens. I spread my fingers experimentally before I rub my fists together to create some friction. Bristel is smiling at me widely as he leans against the cubbies with his arms folded across his chest. He's far too happy, considering we'll be spending half a day's time beneath the earth, trapped and weary. The thought of repeating the unpleasant experience makes me yearn to stay above-ground, despite the fact that everything is frozen tundra.

"I was thinking," He starts slowly. I fight the urge to laugh, because this is reminiscent of the speech I gave Gale earlier.

I fix a straight face and stare at him, "I hope you didn't strain yourself, actually thinking must be hard work for you." I feel pleased when his smile wanes a little as he realizes he walked into that trap, figuratively speaking.

He shakes his head lightly. I allow myself to smile openly as I adjust my father's mine shirt, tucking it deeper into my dark trousers. Mortin is eyeing me as my hands glide around in the waist of the dark material. I quickly remove them, because I know that he is thinking revolting thoughts about me.

"It didn't hurt too much. Anyway, you know how much I love to day dream about you and our future together. Last night when I was in bed I was thinking about how you are such a lovely mine canary…and that today you should cheer us up with a few songs." I bend down to retie my work boots as he talks. I scoff at his notion of _our future together._

I appease his suggestion though and promise one song as long as he remains quiet for a few hours. My laces are slick from wet snow. I wipe my moist fingers on my pant leg.

"Yeah, if you give us a little_ show_ I'm sure it will lift our spirits." Mortin's sickening voice reverberates behind me. I feel a twinge creeping up my back and fight the urge to shiver.

He still gives me the creeps, even though his insinuations are less threatening. When I get control of my sensations I turn to glare at him venomously. He only replies with a devilish grin that renews the feeling of bile in my esophagus. Luckily the whistle blows in the yard, indicating that it is eight o'clock.

I force my way out the door. My men are huddled in a group beside Lift 2, waiting their turn. The blackened snow crunches under my boots as I haul myself toward them, gear in tow. A second crew is mingling with them, I've seen a few of them around, but Hank introduces me to them anyway. A few of them talk about my father.

The most prominent member of the crew is a large brawny woman named Laurel. Her piercing grey eyes assess me as I talk with one of her crew-mates. She has a silver streak in her hair on the left side of her face and her skin is a leathery olive tan.

Lift 2 is rising back up to the surface ready to retrieve one of the waiting crews. I grip my gear in my palms and try to fight back the sensation to run. It gets harder every day. I have to force myself into the dark abyss below. Laurel moves closer to me. She isn't facing me, but her low voice reaches toward me as the lift clanks to a halt.

"You're the canary," she states simply. I don't respond, instead I try to gauge whether being the canary is a good thing or a bad thing. Real mine canaries are there to alert us to noxious gases and other forms of danger. If a canary stops singing, you know that you are in deep trouble.

"What you did was subtle, but it was brave. I admire that. We could use someone like you." This time I latch my eyes onto her gaze and she lingers for a moment longer before she enters the lift behind her crew. My heart is pounding; _they could use someone like me?_ Is she part of a rebel group? She can only be referring to my performance at the festival, a treasonous moment that earned me an unwanted spot in the televised broadcast at the mandatory viewing.

I am overwhelmed by a memory of watching myself on the jumbo screen in the square. It was otherworldly watching my body standing defiantly on the steps of the justice building, my lips releasing the eerie tune with a fluid ease. Unearthly, knowing that all of Panem heard me. Perhaps the most embarrassing part was the clip of me dancing with "Katniss Everdeen's handsome cousin" as the Capitol reporter did a commentary over images of Gale swaying me in circles and dipping me low over the cobblestone street.

My heart skipped furiously when I saw the way we were looking into each other's eyes, if I hadn't been there myself I might think there was something going on between us. Someone had told the reporters that we worked together at the mines. Now, all of Panem believes I am a slightly treasonous woman who is Gale Hawthorne's love interest. They dubbed me the "mine canary of District 12", something that Bristel really got a kick out of. I foolishly wished they had recorded me dancing with him instead; it would have been less damaging.

I watch Laurel and her crew disappearing below our feet as a large gust of wind blows snowflakes into my face. I blink rapidly and shield my face with one arm. The air is freezing as we wait silently for the lift to return for us, but I can't bring my coat down into the mines with me. I would get too warm and I would rather avoid allowing it to get covered in even more coal dust than already covers it. My entire body is quaking as we wait. Mortin approaches me, watching my thin body quiver in the wind and snow.

"Need me to warm you up?" He drawls and I notice that he isn't shaking in the slightest. I glare at him and shake my head furiously. Even if I was going to freeze to death I would never allow his arms around me.

"What's the matter, only have eyes for Hawthorne?" He smirks and steps dangerously close to me. If the hairs on my arms weren't already spiked up with gooseflesh, I think they probably would have risen at his proximity. I feel like a cat, ready to claw at his face.

I sense a warm body step closely behind me and settle a hand on my shaking shoulder. For a moment I think it is Gale, but he is standing behind Mortin with his hands balled in fists. I see that his gear has fallen into the darkened snow. I shake my head at him, telling him I can handle this on my own.

"Mortin, enough." Hank's voice is firm, daring the younger man to defy him. I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders, but I can't ease the shaking of my frozen limbs. Mortin laughs and backs away toward the lift, which is loudly clanking into place behind him.

"You'll warm up in a second kid," Hank says as he rubs my shoulders and arms roughly with his large calloused hands. I just nod and file into the lift with the others. The patch of ground in front of the lift has been shoveled clear of snow. I bang my feet on the ground to remove some of the cold grey substance.

As the grate closes I feel its familiar groan ease into my ears. I watch the familiar diamond shapes of light sparkle across the men's chests and faces. Finally, I turn on my headlamp and stare at the circle of light it creates on Nat's chest as he stands across from me. This is how every day starts, I muse, but today I will waste away in a twelve hour shift. I think briefly about how doing this every day for the rest of my life might allow me to be slowly consumed by madness, like the middle O'Malley sister.

The day goes on as it always does. I continuously lift my arms and swing my pickaxe at the wall that has been deemed my section. My arms don't ache any more like they did during my first week of work. My hands have developed hard lumps of calloused skin that match all the men's. The buckets are less heavy and I work faster than I did before. I can lift the bucket up onto the rim of the coal car with little effort. Artie smiles at me, probably remembering the first day when he advised me on the matter.

We're starting to move our tunnel further down a predetermined path. Hank continues to pour over his maps as we break for lunch. He discusses the quality of the earth around us with Artie, Jim, and Knox. The texture of the rock and dirt, the value of the coal. I guzzle water and try to ignore the black coal dust that coats my lips. It sticks to the moist mouthpiece of my thermos. I greedily choke down my cold oatmeal and canned fruit. Bristel stifles a laugh as I choke in my haste. We've developed a lunch routine of sorts. Every day he sits beside me, while Gale claims the space across from me. Bristel reminds me about my agreement from this morning and I warily oblige.

I sing a common fiddle song, upbeat and flowing. The men eat and listen in silence. Bristel coaxes a second tune out of me and dances with me in the small space near the lift. Mortin looks positively annoyed, but the other men seem to be enjoying the impromptu entertainment. I allow myself to be wrapped up in the perfection that is Bristel's dancing. It flushes my face and eases the tension in my back. Sadly, our fun is short lived. We return to work, beating a rhythm into the hard earth.

When the dinner break comes I feel tired and weak. I collapse beside my pail of remaining food and open it slowly. I let my gaze drift across to Gale, who is sitting with his long legs crossed in front of him. I smile as he pulls a piece of paper from the bottom of his pail; it is evident that it is a note from Posy. I can see the loopy child-made letters of her name. He feels my eyes on him and looks up, smiling. He tosses the letter to me and I catch it with my right hand as it floats down. She drew a picture of a person holding a pick axe in one hand and a flower in the other. There is a note written by his mother on the young girl's behalf and Posy's loopy child letters spelling out her own name.

_I love you Gale, even though I'll be asleep when you come home Mommy says she will tell me a bedtime story like you do. _His mother scrawled the note in a much neater handwriting. I suddenly feel like I want to cry and I hastily pass the letter to Bristel, who is looking over my shoulder with interest. He laughs and smiles at the goofy looking picture of what we can assume is supposed to be Gale.

"She has fantastic skills for such a young kid," Bristel laughs and passes the letter along to Harper. The letter makes its rounds through the crew. The men all smile and laugh before the letter eventually makes its way back to Gale. He folds it neatly and returns it to his pail.

I secretly want to thank Posy, because she's lifted all the men's spirits with her sweet nature. Her innocent gesture makes me feel guilty though. Gale usually tucks her in bed it seems, now every night he'll be here with us. It reminds me that most of these men have families too. Nat's innocent beautiful daughter seeps into the forefront of my mind, reminding me of the song I sang with her and others in mind.

I clear my throat and turn to Hank, who is sitting further down the line. "What do you know about Laurel?" I question him. He looks at me strangely and it urges me to continue.

"She told me she could 'use someone like me'." I emphasize her words by putting my hands in quotations around her statement. Several of the men turn to me with interested faces. Hank looks pained though. I've hit on some kind of nerve.

"No." He states simply, which only affirms that Laurel is in fact doing something rebellious.

"What do you mean no, if there is something I can do to fight the Capitol I want to do it." I say firmly and now everyone is listening to us. Mortin looks uncomfortable for once. He is looking down into his lap, picking at the bread he is ripping pieces from. Hank just shakes his head again. I feel a sense of anger well up in my chest. He isn't my father, no matter how much he and Artie remind me of him.

"I'm an adult, you can't tell me what to do Hank." I say and stand up furiously, letting my pail fall to the ground. He looks slightly pained again and shakes his head as he tries to avoid my gaze.

"You don't understand, kid. This is bigger than you. He just wants to protect you. The Capitol already knows your face. You and Hawthorne should stay clear of it." Artie is talking now, walking towards me with his hands held up like he is trying to calm me. I don't get a chance to respond though, because Gale is up on his feet and forcing his way past me.

"Stay clear of it? What the hell Artie. I'm nineteen years old. I don't care that the fucking Capitol knows who I am. I want to fight them. I have a family to protect too. My brother is reaping age. Tell me everything, now!" Gale is frightening when he's mad; I decide this as I watch him fume only feet from the older men. Hiss height alone is intimidating enough to make me want to cower. He is nearly shaking with anger as he glares at everyone.

"Laurel is leading some plans among the crews. She heard they are lowering wages again and wants to start a riot in the mine yards if it happens." Jim's deep voice slides through the thick tension in the air like a large knife.

Gale turns toward him and demands information. I lean against the wall behind me and feel fear in my stomach. _Lowering the wages?_ They are low enough already. How will I afford to keep myself and father alive if that happens? What if a riot only makes things worse for the district? I close my eyes and feel the hardness of the wall behind me. Its stiff support is tangible; the prospect of a rebellion is not. I listen half-heartedly to Gale and the other men discussing Laurel's plans. I feel someone's hand on my forearm and open my eyes. Bristel is hovering beside me, his features etched in concern. I try to smile, but I know it comes off as more of a wince.

"It'll be alright Canary. Maybe Laurel is wrong." He shrugs during his last statement. I suddenly wish he would make some sarcastic comment at me, so that I could laugh and forget that there is a treasonous conversation taking place only five feet away from us. Forget that moments ago I wanted to be part of it.

"My father needs medicine that I can't afford and I don't have any wood left to heat my house." I say simply as I pick at the dust below my blackened nails. He just shakes his head softly, his expression hardened. This is a different Bristel than I am used to, much different than the man that danced with me during lunch and joked about our future non-existent marriage. The conversation of the other men must be getting to him too.

"We have to do something then." He says. His eyes bore into mine. For a moment I wonder why I feel a strange sense of attraction to this version of him. He isn't really that bad looking, in a way he has some appealing features.

"Yeah," I say firmly after a moment of staring at him.

"She must think that I am a symbol or something, the Capitol has already graced me with a name." The realization slides from my lips before I can even fully grasp it in my mind. Bristel nods, he thinks Laurel wants me for that precise reason. Gale heard my last statement, he returns to join us and discuss the idea of a rebellion with us. There is a hard defiance in his eyes; he is hypnotized with the desire to fight. Everything feels strange. Bristel and Gale are standing side by side, each staring at me. They both seem different now. I wonder if I look different too. I glance down at my father's baggy mine shirt, which has risen up a bit. I suddenly feel so small and weak. I want to fight the Capitol desperately though.

"I'm in." I say to the men around me.

Some of them smile, but Artie and Hank look displeased. I get the feeling they are being fatherly again. We continue the rest of the night in relative silence. The din of the pickaxes is like a symphony. I let the sounds envelope me. The shower of coal falling to the ground is joined by the clank of a bucket against the coal car, or the heavy thud of buckets being dumped. At the end of the night, we group up to push the coal cars towards the lift.

We walk home, cloaked in darkness. I clutch my coat around me and pull my pickaxe and pail close to my chest. Gale tells me to wait a moment. I stand in the dark street, shivering slightly. He returns with an armful of wood. I shake my head at him, I can't possibly take this gift.

"Sidney, just this once. It'll get you through the night. We'll go to the Hob tomorrow before our shift." He says as he forces the pile into my free arm. I thank him profusely. He just smiles and waves off the response. Gale bids me farewell, eyeing me with that intense look that can only mean he is thinking rebellious thoughts. There is a sense of something hanging in the air around us.

The electricity of change.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading. **


	5. Chapter 5: Empty

A/N: Thank you for all of the really awesome reviews. Thanks again for reading!

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><p><em><strong>February 4th<strong>_

I stand by the closet door and peer at the fading colors of my mother's old dresses. I feel strange. I must sell them, but I can't shake the uneasy feeling that doing so will allow me to lose another part of her.

I fit in all of them now, almost as if they were made for me. They are nicer than most worn by women in the Seam. Although, I prefer to wear pants on any given day, they have always made me feel lovely when I slipped into them. I thumb the fabric of the scarlet dress that flowed around me at the festival. Soft cotton that is faded less than the rest of the fabrics. The dress that all of Panem has seen. Parting with this one, seems wrong. My first treasonous act happened in this dress.

With the developments of yesterday, I find that there is some wicked part of me yearning to keep it. To flash its dark beauty at the Capitol once more someday. Rory Hawthorne had returned this dress with the rest of my laundry just three days ago. Hazelle works such magic. I smile as I think about her ability to draw dirt and coal dust out of anything.

I sigh softly and run my fingers through the rest of the dresses. None of them smell like my mother anymore. When I became old enough to wear them and father urged me to do so, I had been apprehensive. Her dresses always smelled faintly like her, it was hard to let that go. Now they just smell clean.

I pull the faded blue dress and a pale yellow one from the back of the bunch. These are my least favorites and they must have been my mother's too, because I don't remember her ever wearing them. It's silly really that I have allowed myself to keep all of these for so long. We have struggled by for quite some time. If she were alive, my mother would have sold them in an instant.

I take the two dresses off their hangers and fold them before placing them in a pack basket. A green dress that has a lace neckline is next to leave the safety of the closet. I fold it gingerly and place it on top of the others.

Father's cough shakes me from my reverie as I stand staring at the remaining dress. He stands with his back braced against the doorframe. His eyes are sad as he assesses the situation. I have yet to mention my plans to him. Silently he walks towards me and peers into the closet.

The scarlet dress is shoved to one side and the remaining dress is in a clear plastic bag. The light blue fabric is accented by silver embroidery that swirls around the chest and bodice. It is by far the fanciest dress that I have ever seen in the Seam. Father reaches his hands in and holds the edges of the plastic bag, letting the dress' shimmering embroidery catch in the light.

"You can take anything Sidney, but not this." He says shakily. I bite my lip and peer into his face. His expression is distant and clouded.

"It will be worth twice what I can get for the combination of the others," this thought is logical and I try to make that clear in my voice. He drops the dress from his hands and the plastic bag makes a crinkled noise as the hanger rocks back and forth. Father turns to me slowly with an extremely pained expression. I try to stand my ground as he opens his mouth to speak.

"Whatever it is you are trying to buy, it's not worth my memories of her," His voice is firm, but his face is tortured. It feels like he has stabbed a sharp rod into my heart.

"It is the only family heirloom we have. Nearly every woman in your mother's family wore this dress on their wedding day. Years worth of happy memories, passed on. Someone in the family embroidered it with their own hands. Cherish it. It was your mother's dream for you to wear it in turn." Father's warm hands grasp me to his chest.

I ponder the dress for a moment. The story of its origins was only told to me once before, when I was much younger. I had always loved the simplicity and beauty of it. My heart feels torn. That dress is worth enough money to buy two carts of wood and three months worth of medicine. A girl like Mayor Undersee's daughter would love it and wear it often. It would bring out the blue in her merchant eyes.

"Promise me, you will never get rid of it. Even when I'm gone." Father's mouth is pressed against the top of my head. He squeezes me firmly as he fights an oncoming cough. It feels like he took that figurative rod in my heart and twisted it mercilessly. If there is only one thing I can do to please him, then this must be it.

"I promise." I stare sidelong at the dress and fight the urge to sigh. I silently vow to hold my words true to heart. It is the one thing I can do for father. The scarlet dress has caught his eye and he thumbs the fabric much like I did moments ago.

"I thought I should keep at least one. To remind me…of her." To remind myself what type of person I can be. My father nods and retreats to the bed where he sits on the edge and succumbs to a coughing fit. He grips his side with his left hand. His face is riddled with a pained expression.

When the coughing has subsided I approach him. I lift his shirt and skim my eyes over the fresh purple bruises littering his left side. When he coughs strongly, he often grips his side in pain. The pressure of his hand has started to bruise his skin where his stomach violently shakes. Father winces as I press my fingers into the soft flesh. There is nothing I can do for it.

A knock at the front door alerts me that it is nearly six o'clock and Gale is waiting for me. I close the top of the pack basket and march toward the resounding knocks. Father follows me. He hands me my pail and pickaxe after I lace up my work boots. Gale and I will be stopping at the Hob to trade these dresses before our shift at the mines.

Father opens the door and beckons Gale inside. They exchange a few pleasantries as I retrieve my hat and mittens, followed by my coat. Gale smiles at me once I am finished. My father eyes the younger man's face for a moment, inspecting the smile. I decide to stash my pail and hardhat inside the pack basket so that my burden is less of a handful. With one swift lift, the basket is hauled onto my right arm and settled into the crook of my elbow.

We bid my father farewell and walk into the still frigid air. The day is dimly lit as the morning is unfolding. Gale and I trudge silently toward the part of the district where an old factory is settled near the forest. It looks fairly abandoned, but any decent District 12 citizen knows that the underground black market is nestled inside. We walk around the left side of the building and Gale opens a large door.

Immediately my ears are beaten by the loud din of voices mixing together. The air smells strongly of meat, fur, and perfumes. Gale holds the door for me as I sidle in. This is the first time I have ever associated with the place. _My list of treasonous activities is sure growing fast._

Gale hooks his hand in the crook of my left arm and pulls me toward a booth on the opposite wall. A large burly man is showcasing a dark leather jacket to a woman, bartering the price. We wait patiently. I let my eyes devour the table, which is covered in furs of all shapes and sizes. Behind the man, there is a dress hanging from a large black hook.

When the woman decides she doesn't want the man's offer we get our chance to step closer to the booth. Gale greets the man with a stern voice. I set my pickaxe alongside my basket and pull the dresses from within. Gale places them on the table and uses his stern voice again to begin bartering prices. His eyes are light silver today. He doesn't let his eyes drift from the man's face. I notice that he is standing straighter than usual and everything about him exudes confidence. This must be his approach to trading, a hard demanding exterior. It's working on me at least.

"I'll give you seventy-five for all three." The man says and lets his gaze shift to my intrigued face. I see something strange in his expression. He knows that I don't know the value of these dresses and that I'm desperate. I suddenly wish that Gale had coached me on how to be a good trader, like him.

Gale uses his stern voice once more, drawing the man's attention, "One hundred or we'll take these to Parker's clothing store in town." _That's more like it; use the merchant guilt-trip on them!_ I silently edge Gale onward in my mind. Anyone who is selling in the Hob is undermining the merchant shops in town. I wonder briefly if we really would get a better price at Parker's.

"Hawthorne, you kill me." The man drawls icily, but he fishes a money pouch from beneath the table.

Gale recounts the coins before handing them to me. I slide them into my money pouch in silence, overwhelmed by the weight of my spoils. I smile softly and thank the man, even though I am not sure if that is a Hob-kosher thing to do. The man shoots me a strange look, which answers that question. No formalities in this place.

"C'mon. There's someone I want you to meet." Gale's lips are close to my ear so that I can hear him better over the crowd.

I shiver slightly and allow him to hitch my arm toward a stall where an old woman is stirring a large blackened pot. Her mangled features ease into a smile when she sees Gale approaching. She immediately places two empty bowls on the counter. Gale indicates that I can sit at one of the stools with the empty bowl. The woman watches me with a highly interested expression. She smirks as she scoops two large helpings into each bowl. Gale perches on the stool beside me and smiles widely at the woman.

"Mornin' Sae. This is my friend Sidney." He gestures to me lazily as he spoons a large chunk of meat and vegetables into his mouth. The word _friend _slides over me and seeps into my skin. We haven't been friends since we were young. I muse over that for a moment and decide that, yes, we probably are friends again.

"Greasy Sae's the name, haven't seen you 'round here before." The woman leans against the counter and points her dripping spoon at me. The hot broth in front of me smells slightly strange. I slowly test the taste of her soup. It is decent, but something about the meat has a strange tang.

"First timer." Gale answers for me. I just nod.

I let my gaze drift around the room. There are quite a few stalls of varying types. It is different than I had imagined a black market to be. The people still seem hardened with some kind of toughness, but there is an ebb and flow to their interactions. There is a comfort to their system.

"You planning to sell regularly?" Greasy Sae asks me as she waves her dripping spoon at me once more. I look up into her wrinkled face and shake my head softly.

Something about this woman makes me feel timid. It's like I am unwelcome here, even though Gale insisted I meet her. I eye him warily as I continue to eat. He is nearly finished with his bowl. As if noticing this himself he drops some coins on the counter as payment. I grab his arm gently before he retracts his hand.

"Let me, you helped me out last night. I need to repay you." He looks taken aback for a moment, but my firm grip and steady gaze tell him I mean business.

Like me, he likes things to be balanced. It's a common trait in this district. While my hand rests on his forearm a shadow crosses over the place where we are connected. Gale looks over his shoulder and suddenly his face is filled with surprise.

"Gale?" A silky voice questions from behind me. It takes me a moment, before I recognize why it sounds familiar. Gale glances down at my hand, which is still gripping his forearm. I remove it as if he has burned me.

"Catnip." Gale says as he swivels in his seat and stares at the young woman in question. There is a note of surprise in his voice.

Katniss Everdeen steps closer to us. I turn myself slightly and see that she is appraising me. She is much prettier in person than I remember her being. I have spent far too long watching her in Capitol broadcasts. Her dark hair is pulled tightly into its usual side braid. Her outfit and bag indicate that she is planning a trip into the woods.

Greasy Sae has turned her attention to the black pot, a knowing grin on her lips. It dawns on me that the reason Sae was acting strangely is because I am the wrong soup partner. I am in Katniss Everdeen's territory. It's unclear whether the younger girl is annoyed by this.

"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in the mines on Saturdays?" Katniss sounds confused and slightly angry. Her gaze hovers over me once more and slides down to my pickaxe, which is leaning against the counter beside my pack basket. A flash of recognition passes though her eyes. She must have seen those Capitol broadcasts of my singing stunt and the fake romance devised by the reporters.

"Had some business, we're going there next. What are you doing here? You checked the snare line already?" Gale is full of questions too it seems. He wasn't expecting her. I try to focus on the soup in front of me instead of the uncomfortable conversation brewing beside me. I slide the spoon into my mouth silently.

"Fence is on." Katniss murmurs as she leans on the counter between us.

Greasy Sae waves a hello to her and sets a filled bowl in the girl's hands. Of their own accord, my eyes slide toward the ring that is balanced on Katniss' finger. _Oh right, the proposal._ Peeta Mellark had gushingly asked for her hand in marriage when the victory tour stopped in the Capitol. Gale's eyes have wandered to the large stone as well. His jaw hardens at the site. Katniss cradles the bowl between her hands for a moment before she pulls a third stool over and forces her way into the spot.

I feel slightly like she is a predatory animal, protecting her latest kill. I get the feeling that I am the scavenger animal who is hoping for scraps of what's left. Gale is the prey. _What am I hoping for, that if she shreds him to pieces there will still be enough left to go around? _ It's obvious that she and Mellark have something going on. She can't possibly think that she still has claim over Gale. _Wait a minute! What am I saying; do I want a portion of Gale?_

Katniss tells Gale about her hunting exploits from the week. It's obvious that they only spend Sundays together. Something about the fact that he devotes his day off to her doesn't settle well in my stomach. _She's engaged, regardless of whether it is fake or not._ Gale smiles as she regales him with a story about an energetic rabbit.

I focus on my bowl and the remaining tendrils of meat and vegetable strips. I tip the rim to my lips to sip the last drips of broth. When I replace the bowl on the counter I divvy out the coins for payment. Greasy Sae takes them in her wrinkly hands. She grips my palm as I pass the coins to her. It causes me to look up into her eyes.

"Come again some time. _Friends_ are always welcome here, especially rebellious types like you Canary," she says quietly. I feel a slight blush tingeing my cheeks at the thought that even this old woman saw my festival escapades. Then again, it was mandatory viewing. The blush tingles hotly for a few moments before it dissipates.

"We better get to the mines," I tell Gale. He looks into my face as if noticing me for the first time, even though I have been here with him the entire time we've been in the Hob. He nods abruptly and smirks lightly at Katniss and Greasy Sae.

"Thanks for the wild dog stew, better than usual." He says jokingly to the old woman. The stew rolls in my stomach as I realize why the meat tasted so strangely on my tongue. It had been tough too, as I ground it between my teeth. I fight the urge to hurl the contents of my stomach all over the floor as I collect my belongings.

"Well Catnip, us working types have to go do our civic duty. See you later Sae." Gale stands from the stool and stretches his arms before he picks up his own mining gear. He places his hardhat on his head of glossy dark hair. I pull my own hat from the pack basket.

"Nice seeing you Katniss. Thanks for the soup Ms. Sae." My voice sounds so slight and girlish. Katniss just nods and watches me as I follow Gale toward the exit. I feel the daggers of her sharp stare as Gale holds the door open for me.

The change in temperature is drastic as we exit the warehouse. The heat of the Hob on my skin makes the frigid air seem colder. We walk silently for a few paces, the snow crunching noisily beneath our boots.

"Thanks for helping me out," I say after a few moments.

He nods at my words, gesturing his hand through the air like his good deed was nothing at all. We walk the rest of the way to the mines in a relaxed quiet. I stow my pack basket and winter clothing in the building with the cubbies. The eight o'clock whistle blows loudly as I remove my mittens. Another twelve hour shift is ahead of me, but the heavy weight of coins on my hip makes the impending torture seem less daunting.

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><p><em><strong>February 5th<strong>_

There is an ungodly amount of snow falling from the sky, causing talk of a blizzard in town. I stand listening to two people argue about it as I gaze at the shop in front of me.

The apothecary shop is on the East corner of the square, next to the butcher shop. It has a faded blue awning and broken pane in one of the windows. The capitol banner from the festival is still dangling on the left side of the shop. It is common knowledge in the Seam the Mrs. Everdeen lived here when she was young. No one really talks about whether her family still owns the shop or if any of the merchants are related to her. More likely than not, her relatives are still alive and probably avoiding her.

As far as I know the Everdeens were the only Seam/Merchant couple in the district. The strict divide between the two social classes goes as far as who plays with whom on the playground. The youngest children always intermix for a few years before they begin to realize that the older kids only play with their 'own kind'.

"Are you going to just stand there? I actually want to enter this shop today." A merchant woman's voice barks behind me as I realize that I am indeed blocking the doorway.

I whisper an apology and step aside for her to enter before me. The bell on the shop door clanks loudly, summoning a thin teenager from the back room. He looks mildly familiar, but he probably is a good three or four years younger than me.

"Can I help you Mrs. Mellark?" The boy asks.

I look up from a display of pain medications and actually _see_ the woman who entered with me. I hadn't noticed that it was the baker's wife. She has a stony disposition and a round face. I usually try to avoid her when possible, her reputation as a bigot isn't to be taken lightly. She smiles genuinely at the sandy blond haired boy behind the counter and places a bag in front of him. Her hands are red and chapped, probably from the intense heat of the ovens. She pulls a vial out and hands it to the boy.

"My eldest son has the flu again; do you have any more of this?" She waits patiently while the boy goes into the storage room again. I continue surveying her, wondering what her true personality is. She seems friendly enough with this fellow, but then again she was rather stand-offish with me a few moments ago.

The boy returns with a filled vial that is identical to her empty one. She nods happily and pulls out a coin purse. Her eyes slide towards me as she opens it, probably wondering if I will try and steal from her. I quickly drop my gaze to the pain medication display. I feel a strange sense of sadness. _I look harmless, yet she can think that I would do something horrible like that?_ After the payment is given she returns her items to her bag and swiftly exits the shop. I sigh slightly and turn my attention to the boy behind the counter. His blue eyes are a very soft shade and he seems kind enough.

I approach tentatively, "I need some pain medication, but I'm not sure which is best." He smiles at me kindly and walks around the counter to join me by the display of colorful bottles.

"What kind of pain are you trying to treat?" He asks as he straightens the display in front of us. I bite my lip, preparing for the look of pity that he will surely give me.

"Black Lung. He's coughing pretty severely now and every time he clutches his side it causes a bruise where he grips his stomach." To his credit, the boy doesn't even flinch. He probably hears a lot of these stories. He just nods and thinks for a moment. He scans the bottles in front of us for a few moments.

I wonder if he is trying to find one cheap enough for a person from the Seam so I decide to let him know what I can afford, "I work in the mines and I have been saving up for a while. I have around two hundred and fifty coin that I can spare for this. Whatever is best, please don't hesitate to suggest it." The boy's gentle blue eyes sweep over my face, analyzing me for a moment. He nods and holds up a hand to gesture he will be right back. I follow him with my gaze as he disappears into the back room. I hear the clank of bottles and supplies being shifted around. After a few moments he returns to the counter and beckons me forward.

"This is pretty strong stuff, not as good as morphling, but close to it. You can afford two bottles, that'll last you at least a few months. He has to take two a day. One at breakfast and one at dinner preferably. It won't help with the coughing, but it will help with the chest and stomach pain." He hands me one of the red bottles and I read the label quickly. A genuine smile spreads across my face.

"How much?" I ask him softly. He grabs a spare piece of paper and scribbles the prices. He figures in the tax and chews on his pencil for a moment.

"With the tax it might be tight," He looks up at me apprehensively, "Around two hundred and twenty-five." I swallow thickly. That only leaves me twenty-five dollars to purchase firewood. As if taunting me, the woman and man who sell wood walk past the window with their giant cart. It is filled to the brim with thick logs of wood. My heart sinks, because twenty-five dollars won't purchase much.

"If you want to wait to purchase this a different day, it will still be here. Most people can't afford it." I know that he is trying to be helpful, but it just makes me feel worse. I shake my head softly and pull my pouch of coins from the loop on my belt. The heavy weight clanks as I set it on the counter. I inhale deeply and push the entire pouch toward him.

"I'll take one please and a sprig of mint leaves." I say. I let him count out the required coins and don't even bother to double check because I trust him. He hands the pouch back to me and rings the items up. The paper bag that contains them crinkles in my palms as I bid him a good day. My heart feels heavy, but my mind is pleased that I can at least have a bit of everything that I need. The tea will help father's scratchy throat, the medicine will ease his pain, and the firewood that I purchase will keep us from freezing.

The couple who sell firewood have stopped at the butcher's shop to deal with him. I wait until they have finished before I approach. The wife has a gentle face haloed by a ring of blond curls.

"Good afternoon, I was wondering if I could set up a delivery to the Seam. House 457." I greet them with a smile. The husband nods and pulls a clipboard from within the cart. He scans it for a moment and pencils me in.

"We'll be stopping on that street in about an hour or so. How much do you want?" He can tell I am unsure of the prices, so he lists the daily special and the price per cord of wood. I decide to purchase twenty-five cords of wood. Mentally I calculate how much I could stow in the house to prevent theft. With my appointment set I start to walk back toward home.

My attention is caught by a crowd of people in the center of the square. I hadn't noticed them before, because there is an immense silence hovering between them. Many of the people are bundled tightly in thick winter clothing. I can't see around them so I walk to the left where my eyes catch Bristel standing straight and stiff. I grab his arm and look at him quizzically. When his eyes fall on me they are filled with something unidentifiable. He grasps my shoulders tightly and tries to push me behind him.

"What the-" I start to protest but he shakes his head stiffly. His jaw is set tight.

"Sidney, you should go." His voice is barely above a whisper as he pleads with me.

Our co-worker Jim joins us and whispers a soft swear word as he looks at whatever has caught the crowd's attention. I force my face between their two shoulders and follow their gazes. My heart leaps into my throat and I let out a strangled cry. Gale is being held by two Peacekeepers. They both are gripping his arms tightly, forcing him toward a post where a turkey has been strung up. I know immediately what is happening. He has been caught poaching.

I drop my paper bag in the snow before I grip Bristel's arm tightly. He grabs my mitten hand roughly in his own and squeezes it firmly to his side. Jim has picked up the items that I dropped and now has his spare hand on my shoulder.

The two Peacekeepers roughly pull Gale toward the post, stopping alongside a man dressed in a shiny Head Peacekeeper outfit. _Where is Cray?_ My mind screams. This man looks venomous. He sneers at Gale and looks menacingly at all the onlookers. There are people from town and the Seam standing helplessly on all sides.

"Your name and residence!" The man barks loudly. Gale straightens his back and peers into the man's face. He looks calm as he clears his throat.

"Gale Hawthorne, 455 the Seam." Gale's voice is clear and smooth. I quiver against Bristel's side, my heart racing rapidly.

"This man was found at my doorstep with this wild turkey," the Head Peacekeeper gestures toward the offending bird before he continues, "He will be charged with treason against the Capitol on the grounds of illegally hunting on Capitol lands. How do you plead Poacher?" His voice is nasty and cruel as he turns his attention toward Gale. I feel my entire body shaking now, vibrating at the very core. My sides hit both Bristel and Jim as I bounce between them shivering with fear. Jim strengthens his grip on me.

"Not guilty. Yes, I killed this turkey, but it was in the meadow of the Seam. I stabbed it with a sharp stick. I was bringing it to show Head Peacekeeper Cray that the fence was off." The lie is so easily stated, as it slips from Gale's lips, that I nearly believe him. His voice is earnest and his features are set tightly. There is no defiance in his face, he is being wise. He knows the punishment for poaching is death. The new Head Peacekeeper doesn't skip a beat though.

"Regardless, you have killed an animal illegally." He says angrily. The Peacekeepers discuss the situation with him quietly for a few moments. It seems that several of them are under the impression that he was not illegally poaching outside the fence and therefore should have a lesser punishment than a public hanging.

Gale waits patiently for several moments. His silvery eyes skim the crowd, falling on the three of us huddled together. I push forward, releasing myself from the men's grasp. I can see the defiance in his grey eyes, the look that he gave me yesterday. It is subdued though; he won't take any risks here.

"The punishment will be a public whipping, to commence immediately." There is an audible gasp in the crowd that makes the Peacekeeper's lips curl evilly.

Gale looks slightly panicked, he turns toward us again. _Go home,_ he mouths to me shaking his head. I tearfully shake my head back and feel Bristel gripping my shoulders. Gale's eyes slide toward Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter. She is standing a few paces to my left, silently crying. He shakes his head at her as well and I wonder how they know each other.

Gale has a pained expression as they turn him forcefully toward the post. They rip his thick jacket form his shoulders and throw it precariously in the snow. One of them ties his wrists above his head. Seeing him this way fills me with an immense anger at the Capitol.

It starts before I am prepared. The whip snaps loudly as it strikes his back. I hear the release of air from his lips, but he doesn't cry out. The assault continues, with barely a pause between each strike. Hot tears well up in my eyes and begin spilling down my cheeks. The fabric of his shirt rips as the whip lashes him, releasing the deep crimson blood from his back. His flesh looks mangled and raw. I scream and Bristel clamps his hands over my face, pulling me into his chest. I press my face roughly into his jacket. My grip is tight on his back. Jim places his hand on the small of my back and whispers to be quiet.

There is a ruckus where the red haired Peacekeeper, Darius lashes out at the Head Peacekeeper that this is 'too much'. He gets hit forcefully with the butt of the whip, knocking him out. He lands dangerously close to the pool of blood that is seeping through the snow at Gale's feet.

When I glance at the commotion I see that Gale is unconscious, dangling by his arms in an odd manner. I choke back my sob. Bristel's grip loosens on me and I fall to my knees in the cold snow. Jim hoists me up by my armpits and whispers to me, "Go home."

I don't get the chance to protest because there is another commotion at the whipping post. I watch helplessly as Katniss Everdeen throws her body over Gale's, the whip lashing at her beautiful face. Peeta, Haymitch, and a female Peacekeeper convince the Head that the punishment has been met. A movement to my left catches my attention. My eyes hover on Madge Undersee who is fleeing frantically toward her house, her long blond hair swaying behind her.

The crowd begins to dissipate, Bristel and Jim walk with me toward the post. My limbs feel like they are not attached to my body. Peeta Mellark swiftly unties Gale's restraints and I watch his limp body being lowered into the crimson and charcoal snow. Bristel grips my hand tightly, anchoring me to reality. There is a short discussion about how this happened. After a moment they purchase a large board from one of the women across the square. I feel myself coming back to my senses.

"I'll go tell Hazelle what happened, that she needs to come to your house," I say hurriedly to Katniss. She appraises me for a moment, clutching her hand tightly to her injured face.

"The kids," She states simply.

I understand her and hurriedly reply, "I'll stay with them myself. I only live across the road." She nods and turns her attention back to Gale.

I try hard not to look at him. Perhaps I am in a state of shock, because I don't even feel sick to my stomach at the site of his damaged flesh. With my paper bag in hand I blindly run through the snow drifts toward home. I reach my street in a matter of minutes, stumbling several times in my haste. I begin to yell once I have passed the Pratchett's house.

My voice is hoarse as I scream, "Hazelle! Hazelle! Hazelle! Come quick!" My strangled hollering beckons her onto her porch. She is barefoot and clad in an apron. Her forearms are still wet from the laundry she was likely up to her elbows in just moments ago. Her expression is frightened as she watches me bound over the snow bank at the end of her yard. I fall face first into it and quickly shove myself up.

"Hazelle! It's Gale." I say, breathless as I finally reach her front steps.

"He was caught-caught-caught poaching-new Peacekeeper-sentenced him on the spot to a-a-a-a whipping!" I can barely get the words out through my shaking breaths for air and the hot tears streaming across my face. She gasps and clutches her hands to her chest before she reaches for me, drawing me in. We fiercely hug each other.

"You have to go to him, at the Everdeens." I finally gasp out as I cry profusely. She nods; her face is ashen like the powdered snow around us. I follow her into the house, where Posy is playing with a mangled paper doll. She looks at Posy sadly before she glances toward the bedroom, where Vick and Rory's voices are laughing and chattering.

"I'll stay with them. You need to go now." Hazelle just nods once more and hastily dries her arms on a towel. She pulls thick socks over her feet before she reaches for a pair of old boots. I remove my scarf and mittens, forcing them into her hands. I know that she doesn't have her own. She tries to protest, but I tell her that the blizzard is definitely coming.

When she is gone I stand silently in the kitchen, staring at Posy who is smiling happily as she plays. I feel empty, bottomless.

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><p>AN: Thanks again for reading and reviewing it has been very fun to read your opinions.


	6. Chapter 6: After the Whipping

_A/N: Thank you for all of the lovely reviews. It is really fun to read them._

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><p><em><strong>February 5th: Continued<strong>_

For a while I stand stiffly in the center of the room, staring at Posy's tiny body. She is curled up in the center of the floor by the hearth. Around her the ground is covered in paper clothes, the edges have little squares that she can fold over her doll. Her tiny fingers dress the paper doll and prance it around her lap, before she decides to change the outfit for the twentieth time. She uses a high pitched voice whenever her paper doll 'talks'.

At some point my limbs gain a sense of feeling. I turn toward the window over the sink. The dark edges of my house are barely visible across the street, due to the thick snow floating from the sky. My fingers grip the edge of the sink as I see my life through Hazelle's perspective. I can see her in my mind's eye watching me through the years as she soaked dishes and laundry in the large basin of the sink. The thought buzzes me back toward the moment that I interrupted her ealier; Hazelle had been tending to a batch of laundry. It would probably be good to finish the work for her, no telling when she will return for it.

A quick glance confirms that the basin is full. Clothes of varying colors float just below the surface of the murky depths. The water isn't steaming, rather there is almost a cold air floating over it. _Of course, because cold water takes out the stains and hot water sets them in._ Steeling my breath, I prod one of the articles of clothing with my hand. The icy water meets my fingertips with eagerness, it causes a shiver. I fish out a red blouse and examine it, _no stains_. Tepid water drips from it steadily. I clear my throat to rid the tension that had set there earlier.

"Posy, could you help me with something." It feels strange hearing my own voice after the strangled quality that choked me not too long ago. Posy looks up with a lovely smile. She pushes herself off the hard plank floor, careful not to crinkle her paper doll.

"Like what?" She asks with interest.

When she approaches me I have to shake myself at the realization that she is nearly the height of my waist now. She is not quite five years old. I pull every ounce of happiness I have left to smile at her sweetly. Her left hand fists in the fabric of my pant leg as she stands by me, peering up at the sink.

"I think it would be really nice if I could help your Mama with this laundry. I was wondering if you ever watch her. Could you tell me if I am doing things right?" Posy instantly gets excited about my proposition.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember Gale telling me recently that she has become rather bossy. This is probably the perfect opportunity to add some fuel to those flames. I laugh inwardly when Posy pushes her sleeves up on her dress as she shoves a dining chair up to the counter. She stands on it with her hands on her hips, a striking imitation of her mother.

"You gotta get that big soap bar." She says as she points toward the right side of the sink. When I grasp the bar in my hands I am surprised by its roughness. There is a grainy quality that would feel awful if it were meant to be rubbed on raw skin. It's like sandpaper, but wet instead of dry.

"Now you gotta scrub the shirt with it all over and then you rub it on the washboard real hard!" I tentatively ease both of my hands and forearms into the frigid water and begin scrubbing the bar against the fabric. The cold pricks me angrily for several minutes, until my fingers start to feel numb. When the shirt looks sufficiently soaped up I scrub it against the washboard with both of my hands. My arms shake with the bumpy movement. Water sloshes over the side of the basin. It soaks across the counter and begins dripping on the floor.

"Sidney!" Posy scolds me, "Keep the water in there. We need it." I try to make my eyes look apologetic and simply nod at her. I dunk the shirt deeper into the water and lather it together to make sure that the soap rinses from it. Posy dries the floor and counter with a hand towel.

"Okay, now you twist it." Posy says. She makes a silly motion with her hands. I twist the fabric to ring the cold water from it. Posy claps excitedly. Then she points toward the complicated rack near the hearth, where there are clothes drying. Gale built this. I don't know why, but I can tell that he made it for his mother.

After a while the motions become routine. Scrub with soap, lather, roughly scrape across washboard, rinse…repeat. Posy gets distracted with watching the snow outside. My house is even less visible than before. I chew my lip and wonder when the wood delivery is coming. _It should have been here by now,_ I think irritably. My fingers are steadily becoming harder and harder to use in their numb state. Gripping the soap bar is a feat in itself.

When I am working the sixth piece of clothing across the washboard Rory and Vick come to inspect the situation. Their curious eyes watch the motions. Unlike Posy, they know something is wrong. Hazelle left too quickly, without an explanation. Rory stands directly next to me and examines my face. My jaw feels tense as I grit my teeth under his gaze.

"Where's mom?" he says.

"With Gale. He's hurt." He doesn't like my clipped response.

"What happened?" His hip is leaning into the cold surface of the counter as he turns toward me.

"New Head Peacekeeper." I state it like that should explain everything. Rory narrows his eyes at my evasive tactic, but doesn't question me further. Instead he turns his gaze toward my house where the wood cart has finally arrived. Father is standing on the porch, speaking with the couple.

"Boys, do you think you could go over and help my father stack the wood in the house?" Vick looks highly thrilled to go out into the blizzard, but Rory looks annoyed.

"In the house?" He says. He knows that you don't typically stack a pile indoors; there just isn't much room for that.

I marvel at him for a moment, he's caught on that something isn't right again. When did he become so perceptive? I cough lightly and give him a pointed look that clearly states we can discuss this later. He may have rolled his eyes, but he has already turned away so I can't tell definitively. Posy wants to go too, but I tell her she can't skirt out on her duties as my coach. She sighs dejectedly and peers at the fluffy white flakes outside the window. The pane is becoming fogged, which indicates the temperature is dropping quickly outside. Rory and Vick bundle themselves up. I give them my paper bag of purchases to deliver to father.

When the door opens we are all blasted with a thick gust of cold air and snowflakes. Vick suddenly looks disheartened. I remind him that they will be stacking the wood inside. I tell Rory to let my father know that I am needed here until Hazelle comes home. My eyes follow them as they trek across the yard, where the previous footsteps are invisible. Father greets them each with a handshake. He appears to immediately accept their help carrying the load in with the couple who own the wood cart. The group disappears into the house after a few minutes, their arms full with logs.

A while later I only have two pairs of trousers left to wash. Posy abandoned laundry duties halfway through and is now humming to herself as she sits cross-legged in front of the fire. Her ebony hair shines in the light of the flames. I start humming with her, which makes Posy giggle at first. Loud laughter outside announces the return of the younger Hawthorne boys. Vick bursts through the door first. He stomps his boots in the doorway before placing them to dry by the fire. Rory follows suit. They both have giant grins on their faces. I smile at them half-heartedly as I finish placing the last pair of trousers on the drying rack.

"Your dad is really funny." Vick says as he wiggles out of his damp jacket. It looks too tight for him and it has several large patches made of different colored fabrics, where his mother has fixed holes. That jacket was worn by both of his older brothers. It will be Posy's eventually.

"Yeah, he gave us each a can of fruit to bring home too!" Rory can barely contain the excitement at receiving food in exchange for his help.

He places both cans in the cupboard, which looks decidedly barer than mine. I swallow thickly as I think about how difficult it is to purchase enough food with my meager paycheck, _what must it be like for Gale to feed this entire family? _ The parcels from the Capitol for Katniss and Peeta's victory only come on the first of the month. Once those rations are gone, you have to rely on yourself to purchase food.

Hazelle must make a bit of money from the laundry, but the bigger paycheck comes from Gale. I know that it's not enough. _How did they survive on his hunting alone before he entered the mines? _ Perhaps people pay better at the Hob than I thought, or maybe he has some private buyers. My Capitol rage swells up again as I remember that Gale won't be feeding his family wild game any longer, nor will he be selling it in the Hob. The Hob probably won't last much longer either under the new command.

"Your father says thank you for the medicine." Rory informs me as he drinks a large glass of tap water. The murky water always smells like rotten eggs, because of the sulfur. I have to force myself to drink it, but Rory doesn't seem to mind it at all. Secretly I am glad that the boys had to give my father the medicine. He would have scolded me for it. Would have said it was a waste of resources.

Vick and Posy have started a loud game of 'Simon Says'. Rory uses the opportunity to grab me by the elbow and lead me into the bedroom. He's much taller than he should be for his age, broad like Gale. He'll be just as handsome too. Their faces are different though. Rory has a softer shape to his jaw and a lighter tint to his grey eyes.

"What is going on Sidney?" He whispers roughly.

I sigh, because I really don't want to replay the events of the day in my mind. He deserves to know the truth though. He's thirteen now, old enough to understand what it will mean for the district and for his family. Rory sees that my countenance has changed considerably. He eyes me warily, baring himself for what will likely come. I turn away from him and assess the room at large. It's similar to my own in size, but the furniture is arranged differently.

"There is a new Head Peacekeeper in town. He caught Gale with a wild turkey on his back steps. No one knows what happened to Cray." I sigh heavily and turn back towards Rory. His face is unreadable, an expression often worn by his older brother. I sit on what I assume is Posy and Hazelle's bed. There is a worn doll sitting neatly on one of the pillows. I squeeze it between my palms, fiddling with its stringy hair as I talk. It helps my mind keep busy, keeps the images of Gale's whipping at bay.

"I was in the square, when they charged him as a poacher. They sentenced him immediately…to a whipping. They tied him to the post and the new Head Peacekeeper whipped him until he was unconscious. That redheaded Peacekeeper tried to stop it, but he got knocked out. Then Katniss came…the man whipped her right across the face." The image of Katniss hovers forward in my mind, throwing her body across Gale to protect him with no thought of her own safety. Selfless. Rory silently sits down next to me. We both stare at the opposite wall for a moment.

"Is he alive?" His voice quakes at the end either due to fear or puberty.

I nod solemnly, "Barely. He was taken to Mrs. Everdeen. He is very brave Rory and strong…he'll pull through." I could be saying this to comfort him or for my own benefit, it's hard to tell. We sit in silence for a few moments longer.

"We'll tell Vick and Posy that he's sick. I don't expect your mom back for a long while." He nods at me; his eyes are fixed on his hands.

"I fought with him this morning. Told him he was a jerk." His voice is soft and ghostlike. Immediately I understand that he feels incredibly guilty.

"Oh, don't think about that. He knows you love him." I put my arms around his shoulders and press his head into my neck. I can tell that he is fighting the urge to cry in front of me; I just grip him tighter.

After a few moments he wiggles his arms around my middle, sighing into my embrace. I can't remember the last time I hugged someone that wasn't my father. Probably one of the girls from school, I hadn't seen any of them in a long time. Not since most of us turned eighteen and started working. Feeling Rory's body heat radiate across me is comforting. I think about Jacob for a moment, how I could be hugging him this way if he had ever grown up. Maybe he and Rory would have been friends.

"Let's put some brave faces on. We can't leave Vick and Posy unattended. I'm sure that game of 'Simon Says' has already gotten out of hand." I say softly as I pat his back. He nods and wipes at his face discreetly. I pretend that I don't notice, to save his pride.

We exit the bedroom and sure enough Vick and Posy are jumping up and down on the couch. I scold them lightly. Vick mumbles his apology and elbows Posy who mimics his words, but doesn't actually seem sorry. I instruct the children to sit on the couch so that I can tell them about Gale. Posy immediately gets dramatic. She worries over him for several minutes as I assure her that things will be alright. Rory takes her into his arms. They sit by the fire, where he reads her a very worn out children's book. She evidently has the story memorized, because she recites every line even though I know she hasn't learned how to read yet.

Vick entertains me with a game he learned from some friends at school. You have to try and slap the top of the other person's hand before they slap yours. After a couple rounds, my hands tingle too much to continue.

Outside, a thick darkness has set in. The blizzard is no longer visible, but it is surely still happening. Probably will be for a few days. I imagine that the mines will be closed, which is probably best. Gale can't afford to lose his spot on the crew. He won't be able to work again for a long while. Thinking of the mines reminds me of Laurel and her plans to protest. Now that the there are new Peacekeepers in the district will she be forced into action?

A quick glance at the clock affirms that it is time to get the children ready for bed. Rory doesn't protest even though he is old enough to stay up for a few hours longer. Posy and I stay in the living room while the boys change into their nightclothes. She urges me to make some tea for them to drink before bed. I happily oblige, because it would probably do me some good as well. I hum lightly as I fill Hazelle's teakettle and prepare the stove. While the water is simmering I take Posy in to get dressed. I search through the bottom drawer of the dresser and retrieve a set of plaid pajamas.

Just as I turn toward Posy I am hit with a flashback. These were the pajamas that I wore during my stay here. I laugh lightly and stretch the pants between my hands. They are so tiny that it is laughable. Being that size is unimaginable. I know these are the ones because the pocket on the pajama top has a star sewn in it. These were Gale's when we were young. When Hazelle kept me here, so that I was safe from the sickness that killed my mother and brother, she had me wear these tiny clothes to bed.

I help Posy into her pajamas just as the kettle whistles its readiness. Rory retrieves some mugs from the cupboard. We all sit around the table sipping the hot drinks. The gentle aroma of the tea leaves is soothing. Rory and Vick play the slap game for a few minutes. Posy draws little circles in my palm as she sips from her mug. She nearly spills it on herself a few times. I tell her she has to hold it with both hands.

After everyone finishes up I set the mugs beside the sink to be taken care of when the kids are asleep. Posy looks extremely drowsy. I take her soft hand in my own, ushering her toward bed. The boys tuck themselves in silently. They huddle close together near the far side of their bed, leaving a large space. A space that is usually occupied by Gale. My heart clenches as I am shot with another memory of my own body snuggled next to his in that very bed. We were both so tiny then.

"Gale always tells me a story before I go to sleep. Will you tell one?" Posy asks softly as she yawns. She turns on her side, snuggling her doll close to her chest as she peers at me sleepily.

"I'm not very good with stories. I can try." My experience with children's tales isn't exactly a broad one. I can tell her about fairies and woodland creatures, but I'm sure she has heard a lot of those stories from her brothers.

"If you can't think of a story, you could always sing, like you did before." Vick says softly. He sounds just as tired as Posy.

I smile gently, because it never occurred to me that the younger Hawthorne's had been at the Harvest Festival late enough to see the dancing. I rise to turn the light out and blindly make my way back toward Posy's bed. I snuggle up beside her small form. These bed sheets smell clean and crisp, one of the advantages of living with the local launderer I guess.

"Alright one song, then everyone needs to go to sleep alright?" All three of them murmur their assent.

Posy's breath is tickling my neck as she presses close to me, her small fist wrapped around a lock of my hair. She fiddles with it as I tuck the blankets more firmly around her. Her body is warm and soft. Taking care of her fills me with a content feeling. For a moment, it feels like she is my daughter, nestled against my side. I sing them a light lullaby about horses. My mother used to sing it to me, but I had also heard it in music class once. There are only a few horses in the district. They are mainly used for work purposes, like the one that pulls the wood cart.

"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep my little baby." Posy sighs happily as I sing the tune. The melody is peaceful. Combined with the complete darkness of the room, I even find myself slipping towards sleep.

"When you wake, you shall have, all the pretty little horses." I gently rub circles on Posy's back. I smile as she twists my hair around her finger. I wish that I had a little sister to snuggle close to and care for.

"Blacks and Bays, Dapples and Greys, all the pretty little horses." Vick and Rory are both snoring quietly. Posy is quite asleep as well. Her breath is spreading little puffs of air across my face. I feel too tired to finish the song and none of them will notice anyway.

I drift off for a while, dreaming about meadows and horses. A rattle in the kitchen wakes me from my slumber. I slip from the bed, gingerly releasing Posy's grip on me. The fire has died down considerably and the air feels massively cold. I fight a rising fear in my chest as I approach what has startled me awake. Hazelle's tired face comes into view as I step from the bedroom. She smiles very faintly at me as she removes her boots.

"Did I wake you?" She whispers. I nod, but make a hand gesture that says it is nothing. I help her out of her coat and then throw a log on the fire so that she can warm herself.

"Thank you." She says as I stoke the flames. Her eyes fall on the full rack of nearly dry clothing, "For everything." She finishes.

"It was nothing Hazelle. How is he?" She isn't crying, which is a good sign that he will survive. She rubs her hands together before she holds the palms towards the flames that are beginning to come back to life.

"I have seen this before. In the times before you were born. Mrs. Everdeen was always the one to work on them. She and Prim patched him up as best they could, put a snow coat on, and gave him morphling." Hazelle sighed. There was a glazed look in here eye, either from old memories of past whippings or from seeing Gale. The distant look on her face reminded me of the day mother died.

"Wait a minute, they gave him morphling?" The last part suddenly snapped back in my mind. The Everdeens had Katniss' victory money, but that kind of medicine was extremely expensive. The stuff they used in the Capitol. The only time I have seen it is during the Hunger Games. Gale couldn't afford to pay them for something like that.

"Yes, Mayor Undersee's daughter brought it. She ran through the blizzard completely alone to bring him six vials!" Hazelle's tone told me that this event surprised her just as much as it surprises me.

Again I find myself wondering how Madge Undersee even knows Gale. She could have gotten lost in the blizzard, or worse, caught by Peacekeepers. Her blatant disregard for her own safety reminds me of Katniss who threw her body over his limp bloody form. _Am I the only girl in his life not willing to risk everything to save him?_ Then again, _what could I have done, but gotten myself arrested for interfering._ At least Katniss had celebrity on her side to keep her from getting in trouble for stopping his punishment.

"I didn't know he knew Madge." My inner thoughts escape my lips without my consent. Hazelle nods her agreement. She is watching me; I can see it out of the corner of my eye.

"He and Katniss used to sell her strawberries, before…" Hazelle's sentence drifts off.

I know that she is implying that she was a customer before Katniss was reaped. I ponder this fact. It was fairly well known at school that Katniss' only non-Gale friend was Madge. Perhaps, they had become friends in her absence, to fill the void, to comfort one another. Something about that doesn't settle well in my chest. Gale and Madge, comforting each other. At the whipping, he had looked straight at her and given her the same silent instruction he had given me. He hadn't wanted either of us to see him that way.

"Do you think…" I turn to Hazelle and let my thought float between us. She places a hand on my forearm and eyes me cautiously.

"Gale has a way about him, like his father did. It makes people want to follow him. To be in his ray of light." Her voice is quiet. The crackling of the fire accents her words with little pops and fizzes.

"I'm sure that, whatever happened between him and Madge was just a means of comfort when they both lost Katniss. He never talks about her…Well, then again…he never talks about much." I smirk softly at her last statement.

"I think I've been drawn in too. It snuck up on me though. I wasn't prepared for those feelings. I wasn't prepared to bring him back into my life." I can't help the words from leaving my brain again. Hazelle smiles at me and pats my arm affectionately.

"I don't think he was prepared for you either. You bring that fire out in him. Like Katniss did before the reaping. They were always a team. And now you are part of his team." She says.

"A different team though. The team who risks their lives in a deep dark death trap." I mutter icily. I don't like being compared to Katniss, who I know he loves more than anything in the world. There really isn't much comparison to make if the scales tip so heavily toward her. All of a sudden I feel very strange to be talking with Hazelle about her own son and his romantic interests, while he lies half-dying somewhere.

"Sidney, I know that you saw the way he looked at you in those Capitol press clips. Don't be silly. When he's better, you should tell him how you feel." I stare at her, my mouth slack. His own mother is telling me to pursue him, _am I still asleep?_ I shake my head lightly. She just smiles widely at me.

"Let's get some sleep. You should stay here tonight, if you don't mind. I might leave early to check on him. I'm doubting there will be school with this blizzard settled in. You could watch the kids."

I nod and follow her to the bedroom. We lay on either side of Posy, both fully dressed, too exhausted to change. My mind drifts almost instantly to another meadow, except instead of horses I am laying in a bed of flowers. Gale is there too, weaving a snare. I watch his hands glide expertly through the motions. He hooks it around my ankle and I laugh at him, because he's caught me at last.


	7. Chapter 7: Trials and Tribulations

A/N: I do not own any characters, story arcs, places, or themes presented by Suzanne Collins. Thanks for the reviews and comments. They are very helpful and lovely to read. Enjoy the next chapter!

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><p><em><strong>Sunday, February 12th<strong>_

It has been a week since the whipping and people in the Seam are still wary of associating with the Hawthorne's. Hazelle has lost nearly every customer except for the Pratchett's, but even they only bring their laundry in the darkness of night. Mrs. Pratchett considers Hazelle a dear friend and an excellent laundress, yet her fear of Thread has almost overcome everything else.

On Wednesday father told me he walked our clothes to Hazelle's door himself, because Vick and Rory are no longer collecting garments door to door. He did it in the light of day and said he gave passersby a spiteful look as he handed his bundle over to a grateful Hazelle. When I imagine it, the scene makes me smile, even though I was far below the surface of the earth when the actual event occurred.

It was strange walking to work without Gale all week. The walk was quick, but the empty silence of my solitude was enough to churn my stomach every day, especially in the dark cloak of night as I returned home alone. Just yesterday I had nearly run home, when I was frightened by noises in the bushes by the side of the road. It was only two cats fighting viciously over a dead field mouse, which was laughable considering how riled up my fear had been from the sudden noise.

Working in the mines is also largely different without Gale. His 'temporary' replacement is a wiry man named Maximus. He prefers Max, which he has told Bristel several times. As per usual, my sarcastic crewmate continues to use the new guy's full name, teasing him endlessly. The rest of the crew has mixed feelings about the 'temporary' stand in, who will likely be in our presence for quite a while due to Gale's condition.

As far as I'm concerned the jury's still out on whether Max is a good guy or not. He's quiet, which is always a likeable trait when you have to spend twelve hours with someone. Something about his skittish nature irks me though. Apparently he was in charge of using the dynamite on his old crew. He almost blew his hand off once and ever since then he's had a nervousness about him.

Thankfully, Max won't be dealing with dynamite while he is part of _our_ crew. That job always has fallen upon either Mortin or Gale. Mortin handles himself just fine without our missing comrade, although his unpleasant and filthy remarks have been heightened by the lack of Gale's presence though.

Today Gale is being brought home from the Everdeen's so that he can do the rest of his healing at home. Rory informs me of this at half past noon as he comes to play a game of tic-tac-toe with my father. Apparently the young Hawthorne boys have been spending time with my father every day after school. I am grateful, because they remind him to take his medicine and they keep him cheerful. Being away from him all day is painful for me, but knowing that he has some companionship eases my worry slightly.

The news of Gale's impending arrival elicits a hearty smile from me. The last time I laid eyes on him he was being whisked away on a wooden slat, completely unconscious and drenched in blood. Throughout the day I continuously peek through the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of his appearance. Father keeps eyeing me knowingly as I pace purposely past the sink, hovering for a moment to stare across the street for the hundredth time.

I wring my hands at my waist nervously when I finally see him approaching. He is flanked by his mother and Katniss, who are both gripping his arms gingerly as they help him along the slippery road. Rory and I hurriedly put our jackets on and burst from the house. We both nearly run toward the slow trio. Rory replaces his mother at Gale's side.

I fall back as I reach them, uncertain of my standing in the group. Katniss appraises me for a moment and nods a hello. I return the gesture with a soft smile as I fall into step alongside her. Hazelle rests her hand on my arm, causing me to stop beside her at the edge of the porch. We both watch as Gale is maneuvered up the steps and into the house. My questioning expression is met with a sad smile from Hazelle.

"Sidney, perhaps you should wait to visit." She says softly. I gape at her for a moment, before I clamp my mouth shut.

"Because of Katniss?" I find myself nearly hissing back at her. She looks at me with the same round almond shaped eyes of her son. I see my answer there in the depths of grey, but I'm not pleased with it.

"He's my friend. I've been worried about him. This is my only day off, I need to see him." Hazelle pats my arm lightly before she climbs the stairs. I follow her, wary that she is trying to protect me from something. When we enter the house it becomes highly evident what she was attempting to shield me from.

Gale is sprawled on the couch, which has been pushed closer to the fire. His head is in Katniss' lap. Her hand is softly running through his thick dark hair as she looks down at him. His eyes are closed as he rests for a moment. The long walk from the Everdeen's probably took quite a toll on his damaged body.

I stand numbly in the doorway for a moment, before I grasp at my sensibilities and pull the door shut behind me. I slowly remove my jacket and boots. Katniss and Gale have placed their boots side by side. I stare at the boots and shake myself once more. Hazelle's motherly gaze follows me as I tentatively approach the pair on the couch.

When I come into view, Katniss watches me with a slight interest. Posy enters the room and is immediately shushed by her mother. Her silent excitement continues though as she bounces towards me. We both sit cross-legged near the fire, facing Gale's sleeping form. Posy makes funny shushing gestures with her finger, as if I am the one that will disturb him. I roll my eyes at her and smile. Her presence is setting me at ease. This game of staring at her older brother is boring to her though. She leaves to retrieve something and returns moments later with her memorized children's book.

I allow her to sit in my lap, nestled between my folded legs. My chin rests atop her crimson head as I look down at the faded pictures. She recites the story, nearly word for word as she turns the pages. I muse about this once more. She doesn't know how to read, but her pride at 'reading' the story to me is evident. Her voice is soft and low as she whispers to me, being mindful of her mother's warning to be quiet.

When Gale does stir, she jumps up nearly knocking me over. She places a sloppy kiss on his cheek, using a low voice that I imagine she uses when she pretends she is mothering her ragged doll. He smiles widely at her, through his sleepy eyes. Then his gaze hovers on me. I receive the same affectionate smile, which I gladly return. He extends his palm toward me and I fold his fingers in mine, squeezing lightly.

"Hello there." I say softly, "How are you feeling?" He sighs and tries to muster a smile once more.

"Been better. Katniss has been watching me like a hawk though; she makes sure I abide by her mother's orders." Katniss smirks at his reference. Obviously she has been forcing him to actually adhere to her mother's suggestions.

"I'm glad she's been taking care of you. Don't know what the crew would do if you didn't get better. It's been so different without you."

I watch Katniss' fingers glide across his scalp lovingly. The intimate touch doesn't settle well in my stomach, especially when her engagement ring sparkles in the light of the fire. One particular sparkling moment draws Posy's attention. She is enamored with the flashy piece of jewelry.

Both Katniss and Gale flush slightly when young naïve Posy asks about the impending toasting and Peeta. Their twin blushes confirm that there is a new development between them. I turn away from their embarrassment only to meet Hazelle's eyes once more. I swallow and look down at the rug beneath my knees. The rug's edges are fraying. I stare at the designs, ignoring my surroundings for a moment.

Gale asks me several questions about work and what he's missed over the past week. Though most of it isn't particularly interesting, I try to incorporate as many details about each day as I can. When I tell him about Maximus, he blanches slightly. Apparently, his knowledge of the man's explosive exploits is quite extensive. He tells me briefly about a few stories he has heard from the past that involve Max making ridiculously dangerous mistakes.

When there is a lull in the conversation I focus on Katniss again. Her skin is glowing in the light of the fire, her hair as shiny as ever. Without all the Capitol make-up she looks younger, but just as eerily beautiful. She keeps watching the clock. When it reaches four o'clock she pats Gale's shoulder.

"Next dosage." She says with a smirk.

Whatever it is that he must take doesn't appear to make him happy. She finds his disgust amusing. He allows her to slide out from beneath him so that she can retrieve several things from her bag by the door. Gale turns toward me with a fake expression of fear, _help me_, he mouths. I giggle and roll my eyes. Katniss returns and gives him a reproachful look. He sighs and begins to sit up cautious of his torn skin.

He begins unbuttoning his shirt, right in front of me. I bite my lip, unsure of where to look. Hazelle is at the sink, rinsing dishes, completely oblivious to my internal struggle. Posy climbs into my lap again, interested in the new development with her brother. Now I can't escape and I'm forced to watch as he removes his shirt completely.

His bare chest has wisps of dark curly hair. His skin is a deep tanned olive, but there are funny lines on his arms that separate dark and light. This is where his forearms have spent an infinitely longer amount of time bare under the sun. He's thinner than I thought he was. I can see the shape of his ribs on his sides. His stomach is flat and ridged.

I vaguely remember seeing Tate Overton without his shirt on last summer as he chopped wood in his front yard. I was on a walk with a few friends and it was a sweltering summer day. My friend Opal had giggled profusely as she sighed over how handsome and chiseled he was. If only she could see Gale now. Making a comparison between the two young men would be almost silly. Gale's long arm muscles flex as he gently lowers himself onto the couch, easing onto his stomach once more.

I gasp when his back is fully visible. Immediately my eyes well up in tears. The flesh of his back is horrifically mangled, a hideous unreadable map of jagged skin. Mrs. Everdeen has pieced the strips of his flesh together, but he will never be whole again. Each wound has crusted up with thick bumpy scabs. Posy squeals and I clamp my hands over her eyes. Hazelle swivels and takes in the scene.

She scolds us before she pulls Posy toward the bedroom to calm her, "You could have warned me at least." She says to the room at large. I feel guilty that I didn't have enough sense to protect Posy's innocent eyes from the horror of Gale's injuries.

I hand her frightened little body to her mother with murmured repetitions of "Sorry, sorry, sorry." I rub my temples and turn back toward the couch with a sigh. Rory and Vick both stare at their brother's back with matching mixed expressions of awe and disgust.

"Well don't everybody stare at once." Gale grunts. I let out a short laugh.

"You look awful, we can't help it." He smirks at my words.

"I feel awful, but this stuff that Katniss' mom made will help. The leaves are gross though." I eye the items that Katniss has pulled from her bag. A round short container, a vial of morphling, and some strange leaves. She sets each item on the table beside the couch.

My eyes trace the curve of Gale's lower back. I think about how he won't be able to return to work until these awful wounds are fully healed. One swing of his axe would unquestionably rip the newly formed flesh to shreds.

I mentally create the movements of swinging my axe. Even the slightest movement involves back and shoulder muscles contracting and moving rapidly beneath the skin. Gale won't be able to endure that for a while, I'm sure. Gale is forced to chew on the deep green leaves. He makes a face of revulsion as he works them between his teeth. His jaw muscles tighten as he continues to chew the cud.

Katniss dips her fingers in the round container of cream; she smoothes the thick pale substance over Gale's flesh. Her movements are slow and fluid. Gale's eyes flutter shut, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as if the application of the medicine is both painful and liberating. Watching Katniss' hands slide over his skin is a torture beyond anything I have ever experienced, probably surpassing my first day of pain filled work at the mine.

I am certain now more than ever, that I am jealous of her. Jealous of the ease with which she permeates his life. Gale sighs heavily as she coaxes the cream across his marred flesh.

_**Sunday, March 4th**_

It has been a month since I watched as Gale was punished publicly. In the time since, Head Peacekeeper Thread has tortured and tried countless numbers of citizens. His flock of new Peacekeepers are like minions, doing his bidding without a second glance. They are stationed throughout town, stopping people at random. They inquire where you are going, what your purpose is, and how long you will be there. Many of them are stationed outside the Justice building in the heart of the square.

The Peacekeepers are like puppets on dangling invisible strings, controlled by Thread with a skillful malevolence. Yet, it shouldn't be forgotten that even he is a puppet, controlled by the Capitol. Thread's power has moved past aiming threats at individuals and is on to targeting groups.

The Hob was burned to the ground last week, suppressing the lifeline of District 12 trade and survival. The coal dust that seeped into the old building's crevices fueled the flames. It blazed for hours, lighting the sky late into the night, a beacon of destruction. The ashes blew in the wind for days afterward.

Everyone has been watching helplessly as friends and neighbors are brought to the stocks, the whipping post, and the gallows. The first person to be hanged for a crime against the Capitol is Clover Haverstock. She was convicted of stealing from the apothecary and butcher's shops. Although she was guilty I still felt overwhelmed by her conviction. She simply wanted to keep her daughter alive, who was dying of fever and starvation.

Her hanging was deemed mandatory public viewing. It rained lightly as they constructed a complex gallows from which to publicly hang her. I was angry when father was forced to attend the event by a large burly Peacekeeper with green hair. The cold damp weather caused father to cough incessantly.

We marched down our street toward town, flanked by the Pratchett's and Hawthorne's. We stood anxiously in the silent square, among the thousands of District 12 residents. Clover cried and begged as they pulled her toward the noose. She wasn't given any last words before they shoved a black cloth hood over her face. Her thin body looked frail, dressed only in a slip. Her feet were barefoot and red from the cold wind.

She has haunted my dreams multiple times since that night. Swinging, fidgeting, and pulsing; her body falling limp as it dangled by her neck in the loop of the noose. Posy had cried profusely for hours, as had many other children who were forced to watch. The cold disgusting reality of public deaths has become routine almost. We've been subjected to three more public hangings since then. Each time, I felt my mind glaze over, probably some subconscious protection mechanism.

In the mines, there has been constant talk of rebellion and protesting. Laurel has made her opinion of the Capitol public knowledge, despite the threat of Thread and his brutality. I am frightened by my part in the dissension. If we are caught, we will all be hung. Our insignificant bodies will be dumped in a mass grave, because under Thread's tyrannical rule no one gets a proper burial.

Tomorrow Gale will return into the depths with me, for his first day back. Maximus will change to yet another crew and things will go as far back to 'normal' as they can.

A knock at the door breaks my train of bitter thought. I rise from the couch and place the open pages of my book against the cushion. I was barely registering the words anyway, what with everything else floating around in my brain. To my surprise the visitor is Gale. His face is solemn. I open the door wider to allow him entrance. Neither of us speaks for a moment; we just stare at each other blankly. Gale swallows before he twists his fingers through his hair. He's edgy about something.

"What is it?" I ask him wearily. Father is taking a much deserved nap in the bedroom, so I try to keep my voice soft.

Gale shakes his head and closes his eyes against his words, "Greasy Sae has been arrested. They put her in the stocks, because they didn't have enough proof for a higher conviction." My gut twists for his friend. She may have been a tough member of the black market trading at the Hob, but first and foremost she is an elderly woman.

The nights are still cold as we are easing out of winter. I shiver at the thought of her locked in the wooden contraption for days. She'll freeze to death if the weather doesn't ease up. I sigh heavily and wrap my arms around Gale's middle. The action surprises him slightly. I feel the tension in his body, but it slowly dissipates as he relaxes into the embrace. My head is resting against his heart. The gentle beat pulses against my ear.

"I'm sorry, Gale." I whisper. I feel him nodding before he places his cheek against the top of my head.

"Me too." He says softly.

_**Monday, March 5th**_

On the way to the mines, Gale and I purposely walk through the square. My breath hitches in my throat as the looming public torture devices come into view. Two Peacekeepers are currently strapping a man to the whipping post. On the far left the stocks are completely full. We approach cautiously.

Greasy Sae eyes us with confusion as we walk closer to her. Her neck and arms are fastened at an odd angle in the wooden contraption. There are pieces of old rubbage and rotten food littering the ground beneath her. It is apparent that Peacekeepers have been throwing these objects at her, because there are stains on the wood beside her head. Her snow white hair has pieces of wilty lettuce dangling in it. Gale leans in and murmurs soft words to her. It's impossible to hear what he is saying, but the relaxed expression on her face lets me know that it is probably some form of encouragement. I smile at her faintly when she looks at me, but my sadness if probably evident in my expression.

"Hey get away from there." A sharp voice bellows at us. I leap back instantly, nearly dropping my pick axe in the cold muddy sludge of snow and coal. The snow has been steadily melting and forming disgusting piles everywhere.

"We're just looking." Gale says stiffly as a large Peacekeeper stomps toward us. The man's white uniform has spatters of blood splayed across it in a strange pattern. It makes me grimace.

"Well, get out of here before I have to charge you for loitering." He says viciously.

My eyes slide along the length of his shiny weapon, a large silver gun. Briefly I wonder if shooting citizens to death will be their next step in punishment. I tug on Gale's sleeve, because he doesn't seem willing to move away from his elderly friend. Our eyes meet, grey on grey.

I silently beg him to step away. His jaw stiffens and he forces his feet to move with me. Our metal lunch pails clank together as I grip his arm, pulling him toward the mines. We walk in silence for a long time, with only the sound of our lunch pails meeting loudly as they smash together.

"She's harmless." He hisses as we round the corner and the mine comes into view, "It's disgusting that they would harm an old woman like that." I just nod, because I can't think of anything else to say on the matter.

The mood lightens slightly as we enter the cubby building. The crew all cheer at the sight of Gale, clapping him on the shoulder. Bristel slaps him lightly atop his red hardhat. The building smells dank like usual and I notice Gale twitch his nose slightly. He has been away from the quirks of the mine for a while now. He may have to readjust to some things. I think bitterly about the expression that will likely cross his features as we lower down the shaft and disappear below the surface.

"Hawthorne, you're alive! We all thought Elmwood was pulling our leg. She kept saying that you would come back, we weren't so sure." Gale smiles and shakes his head slightly.

"I couldn't bear to be apart from the mines for another week." Gale says sarcastically and several people in the vicinity snicker. Oh what a lovely twelve hour shift we will have, working ourselves like dogs, and receiving next to nothing in return.

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><p>AN: Thank you so much for all the kind reviews. It is really fun reading them. Sorry that I don't really respond to them individually. I've noticed that some people do that, which is very sweet of them. Instead of pulling every name to mention on here I will just say. THANK YOU! If you have reviewed then you know those words are for you! You all make me smile. Alright, have a nice day and go read some great stories.


	8. Chapter 8: Gatherings

A/N: Let me know what you think of this chapter. It was particularly difficult once again. Happy reading.

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><p><em><strong>June, 5 years ago<strong>_

The trunk of the willow tree is rough and scratchy against my back. I keep readjusting against it as I read a history book from school. We have been assigned to write an essay about The Hunger Games, using our textbooks as a guideline. An exasperated sigh escapes my lips as I read a line about the rebellion for the third time. A few months ago, father talked about propaganda and Capitol deception. He explained his version of the past, what his parents and grandparents had told him. He insisted that I learn the difference between lies, truths, and half-truths.

Now every book I read at school heightens my awareness of the Capitol's ability to control and alter our thoughts. The words of the text are littered with obvious Capitol lies. It makes me wonder if I can even deem this "history". T he more I contemplate my father's words, the more restless I feel. All of the classes at school are either based on how to prepare to work in the mines, or learning about Capitol infused subjects.

"Hey Sid. What'cha doin?" I look up into Gale's face. He's leaning against the willow, smiling at me. His smile is infectious and enjoyable. When happiness radiates from him, it is hard not to feel the warmth. He doesn't just allow his smiles to be seen by anyone, they are only for his closest friends or family. It makes each individual one a gift, something that can be cherished.

"The history paper. Did you finish yours?" I fold my written notes and place them in the book to mark my page. He shakes his head and gives me a look that says, _of course not, I never do assignments._

I laugh as I lay my head on the willow trunk, gazing at him. He is facing the Seam, smiling about something again. His jaw line is sharper than it used to be. Everything about him is different actually. A lot of girls have been whispering about him in the schoolyard for a while now. I haven't really noticed what they've been saying and I'm trying to ignore why they are saying it about my best friend.

Sometimes I think I understand what the fuss is about though, there's something going on with him. He's taller every day, or at least it seems so. He looks more like his father, strong and dark. Gale's practically a man, at least in appearance.

"What are you staring at?" He asks me.

I shake my head and focus on his face, trying to suppress the blush that confirms I've been caught admiring him. I stammer for a moment before settling on my words.

"You're just different. Every day, taller. You look like your dad." I fight the blush with all my strength. He bites his lip, examining me for a moment. His body slides down next to mine, knees bent, arms resting atop them. His pants are too short again; the cuffs have risen up higher than is considered normal. I suppress a laugh, his mother is probably having a fit over all the mending he needs done.

"You're different too." He says, smiling slightly as he glances at me.

I just nod and stare down at my gangly limbs, feeling self-conscious. My legs have been getting longer, but they feel like thin spindles that swim in my baggy pant legs. When my hips got too wide for my old pants, father traded with one of his crewmates to get these pants for me. They are loose at the waist, but they have a tight fit around my bottom which is annoying. The cuffs always have to be rolled up, because the girl I got them from was much taller than me. I couldn't be more grateful that they aren't too short like Gale's.

When I look up I see that Gale is staring slightly at my chest and I realize why he thinks I look different. It's not my longer legs that he has noticed, but the soft round flesh that has recently begun growing more rapidly, filling my sweaters and shirts. Now I feel mortified. I blush terribly and fold my knees up tight to my body, resting my head on them.

I'm not the only girl who's currently in the midst of blossoming puberty, but I am one of the only girls who doesn't have a mother to help her through it. When my first menstrual cycle occurred a year ago I thought I was dying. There were strange cramps in my stomach as I played kickball with a group of kids in the meadow.

Gale had rushed me home, where I cried in the bathroom for an hour, trying to rinse the blood free of my undies. Gale sat outside the door, repeatedly asking what was wrong. I didn't stop bawling, so he eventually retrieved his mother. As she realized what was happening she shooed Gale from the house. She gave me a long talk about growing up and becoming a woman. She even gave me advice about washing blood stains from my clothing. Cold water is best, with a generous amount of soap. The thought of her washing my bloodied undergarments made me squeamish.

When she had left my house I spent the better half of an hour staring at my naked body in the mirror behind the bedroom door. That was the first time I noticed that my body had been changing without my knowledge. Sometime later it became obvious that I needed a bra. It wasn't exactly something that father could help with.

Father was so embarrassed when he told me I needed to purchase one. He wasn't exactly keen on raising me through all the "woman troubles" as he put it so lightly. It was Mrs. Pratchett who graciously took me to the clothing shop in town, where we purchased two white cotton bras. I hadn't ever spent that much money in my life, but she kept insisting that the bras were necessary. That I couldn't trade with someone to purchase old ones.

"Every woman is a different shape Sidney; you'll need to try on several before you find the right fit." She had told me as she shoved me into the small changing stall and filled my arms with things to try on. After my first failed attempt to clasp it properly she was forced to come in and help me. There was never a moment when I had felt so foolish to be in my own body.

Gale coughs nervously as he examines a blade of grass in his palm. He rolls it and presses his lips to it, making it whistle. The sound pulls me from my reverie about growing up and the deep changes that have been occurring. The branches of the willow are dangling like a veil, a curtain against the heat of the sun. Patches of sky peek through the leaves. My eyes are drawn up toward the crystalline blue before they settle on Gale once more. The sunlight guides patterns across his buttoned blue shirt as it spreads through the willow branches.

"Thom kissed Blakely Davis." He says suddenly, clearing his throat as he examines the reaction on my face.

I look into his eyes, unsure whether I should be interested or disgusted. Gale's expression seems torn too. We never talk about things like this. We usually make up silly games and chase each other around.

"When? Where? Why?" Apparently all I can manage is 'wh' questions. Gale laughs lightly as he pops the head off a dandelion and tosses it aside. He grasps a white one next and blows gently, releasing the seeds. The wind catches the soft white parachutes, floating them along like a snow flurry in the heat of the mid June sky.

"After school today. Behind the maintenance shed." He looks directly at me again as he continues, "Because he likes her." My lips form a silent 'oh'. No one in our year has kissed yet. Or at least the gossip trains haven't gotten wind of anything like that. To my knowledge, Thom is the first boy to actually work up the nerve. With a merchant girl no less, that takes bravery in and of itself.

"Who told you?" I ask faintly as he plucks another blade of grass to create a makeshift whistle. The blade wiggles as it vibrates, releasing a shaking frequency.

"No one. I saw them." His eyes meet mine over the cupped fists he has against his lips. The grass whistles once more. I watch his lips press the green blade.

Suddenly he hands the impromptu instrument to me, coaxing me with an upturned eyebrow to try and imitate him. I ball my hands in fists and smooth the rolled blade over them. My first two attempts yield nothing but a silly noise. Gale smirks and I try for a third time. The faint whistle vibrates against my lips, wiggling the blade. I smile broadly at him. I like when he teaches me new things.

"Can I ask you a favor?" His grey eyes soften as he speaks. I look at him curiously, and then nod for him to continue. The blade of grass whistles over my cupped hands as I practice my new skill.

"Can I kiss you? I don't want the first time to be with some girl I don't know." The grass nearly chokes me when I inhale sharply and sit up straight, pressing my back against the trunk once more.

I'll be fourteen next month, I don't think that much about kisses or boys. Yet, Gale Hawthorne is asking me if we can share our first kiss with each other. I want to pinch my arm to check if I am actually dreaming. I refrain and turn towards his expectant grey eyes. His cheeks are tinged slightly pink.

"You did kiss me. When we were seven." I say nonchalantly, trying to keep my beating heart at bay. The memory of that day is just as vivid in my mind as the moment it occurred, because that was the day my mother died. He laughs heartily, breaking the tenuous strand of tension between us.

"That doesn't count because you forced me. Besides, that was only a peck there's more to it than that." His laughter makes my insides crawl even more. The thick lump in my throat is hard to swallow around.

"There is?" I ask cautiously. He nods, hovering closer to me. I can smell the chalky soap that his mother uses to scrub dirt from his clothes.

"Just once right?" I ask as he comes close enough for me to see the freckles spattered across his nose. He nods again, smirking slightly.

"You can only have one first kiss. So yeah, just once." He says it logically, almost enough to convince me. I shoot him another apprehensive look. He just smiles happily, like this is another normal conversation. I wonder briefly if he actually _likes_ me. Thom kissed Blakely because_ he_ liked her, at least that's what Gale thinks.

"Alright." I murmur softly.

He's my best friend; it might as well be him who I share this experience with. His smile widens slightly and the pink tinge has returned to his cheeks, a deep shade beneath his tan skin. I feel my own face heating adamantly. He leans closer and I find myself subconsciously counting the freckles that are clustered in an indeterminable pattern. It is as if someone splashed brown paint in flecks across the bridge of his nose to permanently stain him. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted toward mine. In one beat of my heart I postulate why he is sitting in such an intriguing way; he intends for our agreement to be carried out immediately!

"Wait, you mean now?" I almost shriek, my nerves swallowing me hungrily as I realize why he has taken this strange posture. My skin crawls with a heated flush that covers me entirely.

He scoffs at me and gives me a look that says, _of course now!_ I giggle nervously and press my palms over my shabby shirt, smoothing the wrinkles. _This is ridiculous_, I think_._ Gale takes one of my fidgeting nervous hands and presses it in his. I stare down at the entwined fingers, marveling at how smooth his feel. There is a toughened spot in his palm that must be from setting snares with his father. It distracts me for a moment as I examine his fingers. They are longer than mine. He leans toward me once more.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lick the dry skin of my lips subconsciously. I gasp into his mouth as his lips finally brush over mine. They are soft round mounds, tender and cautious. I feel him squeezing my palm as he turns his face, sliding his lips along mine. For several moments all I can think about is his warmth and the smooth texture of his mouth against mine. I feel buoyant as though I should be blowing away, like the dandelion seeds, floating weightless on the breeze. Yet, I am grounded by the soft pressure of his kiss and the solid anchor of his hand.

I don't even notice when someone screams a vivacious, "Ewww." Gale pulls away and looks over his shoulder at his seven year old brother Rory. I blush furiously. He still has my palm in his grip as he throws his younger sibling a menacing look. Rory bounds off toward home, probably to inform his mother about what he's just seen. Gale mumbles an apology to me when he sees my mortified expression.

Rory will be eight next month just before my birthday and he is at the perfect tattle tale age. He still believes that girls have cooties too. I stopped believing in the fake germs when I was around his age. He'll probably be informing his mother that Gale and I are both icky because we are giving each other mouth cooties. Then maybe Gale's parents will start up with the whole 'you'll be married someday' act that they used to joke about when we were younger. I cringe at the thought.

Gale leans his shoulder against mine, still holding my hand in his, "Thanks." He says quietly as he absentmindedly thumbs my palm. The skin there itches slightly as he traces the lines etched in my skin.

I am filled with the sensation that Gale is different from the other boys. He notices miniscule things, remembers intricate details as if he is simply recalling a well known fact. I smile softly as the itchy skin becomes ticklish. I wonder if he has already memorized the lines he is tracing, or the feel of my lips against his. I glance at his face and find him looking into my eyes.

"Your eyes are like rainclouds." He nearly whispers the strange revelation. I furrow my eyebrows and laugh heartily.

"As your best friend, I consider it my civic duty to tell you _that_ is not a good pick-up line. Since you'll be kissing loads of strange girls now, you might as well reel that one liner in before it messes with your tough-guy image. " I say while I smirk at his mock facial expression of horror.

"No really, they are Sidney, like the grey before the storm." I roll my eyes at him and he releases my hand. It tingles in the air.

I jab my finger into his side, digging at the sensitive flesh. He laughs and swats my hand away. I know all of his most ticklish spots. I grin at him devilishly; already, the awkward sensation of kissing my best friend has begun to wane. He stands, walking away from me backwards so that he can make silly faces as he retreats. Ever the jokester.

"See you tomorrow." He says before he turns to walk toward the fence. I nod firmly, releasing a long breath. I watch him depart, staring at the place where he disappears for a long while. I marvel for the millionth time at the way he floats into the forest with ease. It happens nearly every day before and after school, so that he may check the snare lines that he sets with his father.

Slowly I pick my book back up and unfold my notes. Hopefully no one will ever hear about this at school, because Gale's my best friend and I'm not quite sure how I feel about him beyond that. The gossipers would make it into something it isn't. I decide that I can't focus on the text any longer, so I head home.

When I reach our street I am greeted by a chorus of "Gale and Sidney sitting in a tree", from Rory, who is mocking me from his front porch. I shake my head, laughing at him. Part of me feels slightly embarrassed though as I see Hazelle smiling at me knowingly through the window over her kitchen sink.

Rory is skipping in a circle, making kissy faces. As he turns to make another mocking loop toward me the ground shakes suddenly and violently, causing him to stumble into the railing. I hear him release a breath as the thick banister hits him in the stomach. The ground shakes violently again, vibrating beneath my feet menacingly. I stare down at the dirt, instantly frightened and confused. Rory opens his mouth to question me, but his words fall silent under a louder sinister sound.

For a moment my ears feel clogged with thick cotton, muffling the noise that is all too familiar to the citizens of District 12. Rory and I stare at each other with frantic eyes, our fearful thoughts permeated by the low bellow of the sirens. The warning signals that there has been an accident at the mine. Everything moves in slow motion, as if the world is under water.

Doors along the street are flung open by anxious family members. I pivot on my heel, barely registering my surroundings. The deep sound revs into a long bellowing whine, repeating over and over again. Each time, the ache in my heart grows. My eyes focus once again as Hazelle Hawthorne bursts through her front door, one hand gripping the doorframe and the other grasping her large stomach where her unborn baby is nestled safely. Her expression is strangled as she looks down the street. Vick is gripping her legs, frightened and crying. Rory grasps his mother's hand, forcing her back into the house. They will be readying to head to the mines any moment.

_Wait and watch, _my mind instructs. It is all that we will be able to do.

My limbs shake as I quickly hurry toward my home. Haphazardly I throw open the door. It slams against the wall in my haste to enter. I drop my book onto the kitchen table without a second glance. My limbs continue to shake as I force my hands through a dresser drawer, seeking a thick sweater. If I will be waiting outside the mines well into the night, I need to bring something that will keep me warm. The sirens are continuing to blare and even the walls of the house are susceptible to the eerie fatal call.

Once I have found the warm garment I quickly rise and search the kitchen for a food item that I can carry. Waiting will be long and unnerving, but ignoring hunger won't do me any good. A handkerchief serves as a good wrapping for some squirrel meat from Mr. Hawthorne and a chunk of moldy cheese. I know will be grateful that I packed it for myself. I leave the house, locking the door behind me before placing the cold golden key in my pocket. We never lock the house, unless we will be gone for an extended period of time. My subconscious action to do so scares me out of my daze.

With a solemn face, I join the throngs of people rushing toward the mines. The mine yard is to the south of the Seam, a walk that is just long enough to carry on a detailed conversation. Today however, the only chatter is the mumbled questions of small children who are grasping their mother's hands. The mass of people move like a giant ocean swell, some portions faster and some slower.

Regardless of the way we arrive it will be nothing but waiting once we have reached the destination. Already, some people are crying, unable to contain their fear. I trip once and am nearly trampled by a large man. He doesn't stop to apologize as he pushes forward through the crowd. I taste metallic blood in my mouth from biting the inside of my cheek. I swish saliva around, before spitting a bloody glob into the coal-covered dirt. An old woman gingerly helps me to my feet and we both continue on in silence.

The throng of bodies surge toward the mine yard with hysterical force. A thick braided rope has been strung up, blocking everyone in like a herd of cattle. Peacekeepers in crisp white suits stand guard, with their weapons drawn. Almost every Peacekeeper in the entire district is present, perhaps in case the frantic citizens somehow become out of hand. I feel my body being jostled roughly between the people around me as everyone vies for a position at the ropes. No one says they are sorry; no one turns to look at who they have almost knocked over. All eyes are trained on the entrance to Lift 1 where thick black smoke is billowing into the crystalline sky.

The siren is almost deafening at this close proximity. It pulses through my skull and shakes the very core of my soul. After a few more whining drones it ceases. Able-bodied men and women from the crowd are being ushered toward a watering station to the left of the mines. A long hose and a series of large buckets are being pulled toward the entrance to the smoking lift as my eyes fall on the nearest Peacekeeper. His expression is stoic, unconcerned. The coal-dust of the mine yard is settling onto his crisp white pants and boots, graying his appearance. He eyes it warily with a look of disgust. I want to spit another bloody glob on his pristine jacket, but I resist the urge.

Instead I watch as the hose, buckets, and extra helpers are lowered down the shaft via a pulley system. Normally an electronic control panel raises and lowers the lifts, but the man who runs it appears to be having difficulty getting the machinery to work. The explosion probably short circuited the wiring. A man unravels the large coiling hose with a giant crank as the other volunteers are lowered with the hose head.

A second group of volunteers are creating a pulley system for Lift 2. I bite my lip nervously as I watch them. My father works in Lift 2. At the present moment my fear has lowered slightly in my chest, because his mineshaft is not the one fuming toxic black smoke.

The office secretary bursts from her door with a box of medical supplies. She is followed by two men carrying a large green chalkboard. I swallow thickly as I watch them carry it toward the ropes. The board will be organized by crew with each individual miner listed beneath their group.

The group walks back toward the office and returns with a card table, a chair, and a second box of medical supplies. I know from previous experience that the table will become an impromptu nursing station. The secretary pulls a long list of names from one of the boxes and hands it to the taller man, a townie with thick blond curls. In these desperate situations even the divide between Merchant and Seam is blurred. The man begins scrawling names in white chalk across the board. His even hands write the names neatly in block letters.

After nearly an hour of waiting someone grasps my shoulder, startling me. I glance back to see Mr. Pratchett standing beside me with his wife and their two young grandchildren. Their son and daughter-in-law both work in the mines presently, though the daughter-in-law had hoped to quit next week because she had learned she was having another child.

Weak smiles pass between us, more grim than comforting, a gathering of familiar faces in the immense swell of uncertainty. Mrs. Pratchett has her small granddaughter swaddled in a blanket against her chest. Her deep grey eyes are glazed as she stares at Lift 1. She doesn't blink for a long time. Mr. Pratchett's jaw tightens as he looks down at his wife. _Their son must work in the portion of the mine below Lift 1_. My heart sinks, he is worse off than my father.

The crowd is getting restless as another hour slides by. Finally, Lift 2 begins to rise. The crowd grows silent. But for the squeaking of the lift as it slowly pulls toward the surface, not a single sound is heard. Through the grate a mass of coal covered bodies can be seen. As soon as the metal clangs open they pour from within the tiny space.

Immediately they are ushered toward the improvised nursing station. They form a jumbled line. Their faces are identical under the dusty coal, blackened and wary. Lift 2 lowers in the background as the group of miners are assessed. The apothecary shop owner and his wife are now huddled with the secretary at the nursing station. This group of men don't appear to be entirely injured. The man with the chalk asks for the first man's name as he is deemed able to leave.

The crowd is silent as the man approaches the board. He clears his throat before answering, "Quincy Boliver, Crew 8". It is crossed off with a line of blue, the symbol that he is alive. In the mass of people to my right a woman screams his name, forcefully pushing her way toward the braided rope. Tears of relief are streaming down her face as she grasps the rope and beckons to him.

And so, for the next few hours miners are hauled to the surface. The first group of men and women from Lift 1 yields several burn victims, a man with a broken leg, and a larger group who are suffering from the smoke inhalation. A handful of men from Lift 2 are injured severely from a rock slide in the fourth tunnel. Only one man is dead from that incident.

Each time that a person is confirmed dead, their name is circled with red chalk. As Lift 1 returns for the third time there is another bought of silence. The volunteers have created a large pile of motionless bodies on the right side and a group of injured on the left.

A burly man from the merchant quarter calls out that this group of dead is from level 3. These men succumbed to smoke inhalation. The crowd surges toward the chalkboard as the names are circled. As Orion Pratchett is circled in red I hear a scream muffled beside me. The intense pain written on the faces of my neighbors is unbearable. They have lost their only son, whose wife has still not risen from the fiery depths below. But, oh how wrong I am, when they circle Poppy Pratchett soon after in the same dark red symbol of death. The children are wailing uncontrollably. I watch as Mr. Pratchett attempts to usher his wife away, his strong wrinkled face ridden with tears.

The crowd begins to dwindle as I continue the game of _watch and wait_. The next time that Lift 2 rises I see familiar faces emerging and know immediately that this is my father's crew.

"Level 6. All clear." Someone yells beside the lift.

A sigh of relief passes over the crowd as this group of miners approaches. _All clear, that means that everyone is out of the second mineshaft _I think to myself. My eyes search the faces frantically. Father is the last man in the group, hobbling silently behind his fellow workers. I begin to cry profusely when I set my sights on him. I don't let myself believe it is him until Syler Elmwood is crossed in blue on the board_, alive_. I fling myself toward the braided rope calling to him. My eyes are clouded with tears, blinding me. He hugs me over the rope, rubbing his hands along my back soothingly.

"Shhh. It's alright baby, I'm alright. Everything's okay. Let's go home Sidney." His voice is clogged with a dust-like quality as he speaks shakily. I continue to cry as we walk home on unsteady limbs, forgetting the rest of the neighbors that we should be concerned about. Oblivious, only for a short time, to the people who have died in the gruesome explosion deep beneath the earth.

From that moment on, everything about life was different. Everything, because one of those people was Warwick Hawthorne and Gale was never the same afterwards.

_**Present day, Wednesday, March 21st**_

While Bristel is telling Gale some extravagant story about a girl he kissed behind the butcher shop, my mind drifts to the two kisses that I have had in my lifetime. Gale probably doesn't even know he is the only person that has ever kissed me.

I'm not about to tell Bristel about it, because I would never hear the end of it. He would probably try to stick his tongue down my throat so that he could claim that he was the first 'man' to kiss me. I cringe slightly at the thought of Bristel's tongue in my mouth. My eyes float toward him, sliding over the contours of his face. Again, I wonder why I feel so attached to Gale when there are other men like Bristel who would gladly court me.

The first time I had kissed Gale was the day my mother had died of fever. The second time was shadowed by the death of his father. That's when Gale became a man, providing for his family by hunting illegally in the woods. I try to shake the next onslaught of memories because they are teeming with deep dark days. Harper quietly approaches as I turn my gaze back to my own meal.

"You said you want to be a part of Laurel's plans right? There's a meeting tonight at her house." Harper informs me as he sits down, accidently bumping his shoulder against me. He's finished with his meal, but he is sipping from his thermos still. He drums the fingers of his left hand on his knee in a sporadic rhythm.

"What time?" Gale and I both say in unison, prompting Bristel to yell, "JINX!" We ignore him and wait as Harper swallows the fluid in his mouth. He smacks his lips lightly.

"Right after work," he says before taking another swig of his drink. I exchange a heated look with Gale, before I realize something discouraging about the meeting place and time.

"Won't it look suspicious if all the miners head toward one house, rather than in multiple directions?" Gale nods in agreement with my sentiment. Harper shakes his head and swallows once more.

"Only the crew leaders are invited, but Laurel said she wants you and Hawthorne there." Gale eyes me with confusion. _Why would she only want us?_ I wonder silently. Gale's expression seems to mirror my thoughts.

Bristel laughs and elbows me in the side, "Maybe she wants you to play up the mine canary thing, the forbidden star-crossed lovers of the mine…doomed to work to your deaths!" He clutches his heart and pulls a sad expression. I roll my eyes at him.

"We are not _forbidden_ lovers." I say angrily, twisting the lid back onto my pail.

"Oh, so you're just _lovers_ then. Darn I've missed my chance." Bristel slaps his knee mockingly. I glare at him; he's treading deep waters now. I think he secretly knows how I feel about Gale. I will never give him the satisfaction of being right though. He'll never see me blush or bat an eye if I can help it.

"We're friends." I say venomously.

Despite what Hazelle says, I'm not about to profess my undying love for my former best friend. It's painfully obvious that something happened between him and Katniss during the time after he was whipped. Otherwise they wouldn't have been so nervous about Peeta being mentioned. I avoid Gale's gaze as I stand and walk toward Hank to ask him if he'll be going to the meeting tonight. There is a suspicion inside my head that says he hadn't been planning on mentioning my requested presence to me.

Hours later Gale and I walk silently toward Laurel's house, carefully avoiding the town. It's slightly warmer this evening than it has been lately. The snow from the previous month has almost completely disappeared, leaving soggy brown earth in its wake. Gale unbuttons his jacket as we walk, handing me his pail so that he can more easily maneuver his fingers.

It's normal for Gale to be silent, but he seems uncharacteristically quiet. He is probably mulling over the million possibilities of why we have been summoned specifically. Hank is walking ahead of us, talking quietly with another crew leader. His facial expression is apprehensive as he listens to his companion's words.

Ahead in the distance, the outline of the massive burnt remains of the old factory loom in the darkness. My last encounter with the underground black market occurred during daylight hours. In the inky black of night, the destroyed remnants of the Hob are more ominous. Everything exudes a feeling of danger. We trudge a path through the outer edges of the Seam, to keep our journey inconspicuous. Hank and his companion turn left on the road before Laurel's home. Gale and I silently walk on, intending to loop back around from a street further down.

Even as we approach Laurel's quiet home I can't shake the feeling that something is strange about this meeting.

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><p>AN: Thanks so much for reading. Thank you to everyone who has shown an interest in the story. I really love reading your reviews. Pass the story on to friends! I would love to reach more people.


	9. Chapter 9: A Dark Grave

**A/N: Hello all, boy it's been a long time coming for this chapter. It is not beta-ed yet, because I don't want to bother my beta at the moment. This chapter is not one hundred percent at the level I wanted it to be, so if you have any suggestions please give them! Happy reading.**

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><p><strong>Wednesday, March 21<strong>**st****, Continued...**

When we step through the threshold of Laurel's home I immediately feel an onslaught of heat radiating through the room. There are more men packed in here than sardines in a can. The brush of the stale heated air reminds me of the trip I took to the Hob with Gale. That feels like ages ago. Hank is already seated in a wooden dining chair that's pressed against the far wall. There is a line of chairs pushed back to give other people room to stand. There are men occupying every seat and even more leaning against anything that's sturdy. Gale and I remove our hardhats as we step further into Laurel's living area. It's a small house, even by Seam means.

"Pleased to see you came," Laurel smiles evenly from her spot in the center of the room.

She looks more alive here. The sole light dangling from the ceiling above her makes the silver streak of hair sheen almost bright white. Even in this half-darkened room her olive skin is more leathery than anyone I've seen. It's tanner than even Gale's sun-darkened skin. _Perhaps she too spent a great deal of time over the fence._

"Now that we've all arrived, let's get to it," she stands and looks at every man in the room until her eyes settle on an older fellow sitting on the sofa.

"Zane, the report," she addresses the man. I watch her walk into the small kitchen area to fetch a pitcher of water and a tray of chipped glasses. She places it on the table filling them as Zane begins. She passes the filled glasses to the men around her.

"There's news of open rebellion in Eleven and Eight, the same as usual. They're holding firm in support, but lacking supplies. The new addition is Ten, they've got a hold on all their product. The Capitol will be hurting from that soon enough. As of yet, there hasn't been any additional peacekeepers, but their Mayor's been held captive. Thirteen's given the go-ahead to initiate our plans," Zane has a low voice that settles on everything like it carries more than just the weight of his words.

My brain skips a beat at his last statement. The number of the long-dead district rolls around in my mouth like it's full of putty until suddenly it pops out, "Thirteen?" My gaze lifts from Zane and shifts to Gale who looks just as confused. His dark eyebrows are knit together as if he's trying to work something out. Some of the men in the room chuckle a little. Laurel is smirking, but no one says anything for another beat.

"It's still there," Hank says from his place at the wall. I glare at him, he knows how I feel. He didn't tell us because he didn't want us doing anything rash about the knowledge.

"What?" Gale grits out. He looks angrier than I would have imagined. He never did like being shocked by something.

Laurel's pitcher clinks against a glass. She fills it to the brim, emptying the pitcher before she heads back to fill it up. As she pumps the water her voice drifts loud and clear through the room, "Thirteen made an agreement with the Capitol, they're underground. As long as they stay out of the way, they stay alive. I think you know how they felt about it. Now they've built up another military force."

Laurel turns back to Gale and her smirk widens into a smile, "I'm sure your dying to know how we find out about them. I'm surprised you never found any other district's runaways while you were in the woods Hawthorne. I did, it was the most fortunate thing that came of my struggles."

I can practically feel the hitched up level of heat that is radiating off of Gale now. He glares at Laurel like he's intent on decapitating her. He angrily stomps toward the table. There is tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. He grabs the glass of water forcefully, which sloshes some of the liquid onto the wooden table-top. He greedily gulps the whole glass down before he slams it back onto the table. I watch him close his eyes and take one deep breath before the angry words start. _At least he took a short breather,_ I think wryly as I remember his quick temper.

"You mean to tell me that we've had the means to overthrow the Capitol for years and you've all sat by idly biding time?" Gale swivels on the heel of his right work boot. His eyes pierce the faces of the men he knows best.

"How long have you known about this?" his voice is losing some of its gusto as his anger melts into the shock that I am feeling.

I see Hank rub a large palm over his own face. He's tired. Is it just the face of a man who's worked in the mines too long, or is that the tired face of a man who's kept a life-saving secret from his people for too long? Of course Hank would be the only man who looks guilty. Laurel walks up to Gale. She is standing so close to him that it nearly makes me jittery. She begins pouring more water into his empty glass.

As she hands it to him she looks right into his defeated eyes, "It's probably been fifty years or more since Seam folk knew the truth. When the time came for your father to find out about it, he was quick to anger too. Don't let that be you, Hawthorne. It's what got the lot of them killed."

I feel bile quickly rising in my throat. Not only is Thirteen still in existence, but the very outrage and desire to rebel because of that fact is what killed those miner's. _I will be sick, right here, right now on this lovely unpolished floor_. I press my hands over my mouth as I feel a dizzy spin in my head. _What am I doing here?_ The Capitol will surely find out who've I've been fraternizing with. My emotions must have been torn about it for a reason. A man standing close to me raises a hand up as if he will attempt to break my fall. I can't look at him. I can't look at anyone. I need to process this, I need air. My body numbly retreats through the door and into the night air just before the heaping gasps begin to form in my chest. _Does my father know his friends were killed over a secret rebel group?_

My chest heaves giant gulps of air, but it doesn't feel as if I am retaining any of it. I feel the hot tears on my cheeks soon after. I'm hyperventilating. I drop my head down and brace my forearms against my knees as I try to slow my accelerated breathing. I feel a hot palm on my back, heating through my thin coat and shirt.

"Breathe kid, before you pass out," Hank says lowly as he tries to sooth the attack. It feels like many minutes have gone by before I get ahold of myself. My chest is burning with the effort and I can feel a headache forming. I've never had this feeling before, utter dread and confusion.

"It's not what you think, not everyone knew. They didn't die for nothing and you'll be safe. I won't let anything happen to you," Hank assures me. His palm feels heavy on my shoulder as he ushers me back toward the house. He keeps glancing around, as if he is looking for bystanders.

When we return the room seems more talkative. Men are conversing quietly in groups. Gale is still standing in the center of the room, looking shell-shocked. He briefly meets my eyes, but his expression seems hollow. I grimace as he looks back at his empty glass. I wonder if he sees himself in it.

"Welcome back little canary," Laurel addresses me as Hank slowly guides me into the room. I feel a strange bubble in my stomach. It sits heavily at the base of my abdomen, the remnants of my negative feelings.

"Now we can discuss what you two can do for us," Laurel says somewhat brightly.

I notice that she doesn't say _what you can do for the district or the nation_, it's simply_ us._ A collective group of secret keepers, this "us" is. _Who are they actually helping?_ I wonder bitterly. I try to remind myself that I want to do what's right for the district, I want change to happen. Hank guides me into the chair that he vacated. He stands half in front of me, half beside me. Like a bulky barrier between my body and my fate.

"We have a trail blazed to Thirteen now and we need an expert tracker to keep us safe. Someone who knows those woods like his own right hand. That's what we need you for Hawthorne. You're the best man in the woods. It was unfortunate how well-known your face was, how recognizable you are to the Capitol. We thought surely they'd notice you missing," Laurel tilts her gaze toward me and smiles, "That's where you come in. You've got a beautiful voice, almost as beautiful as the mockingjays Elmwood. We knew you could be our scapegoat while serving a double purpose."

I stare at her blankly for a moment before it dawns on me, Katniss sang to the mockingjays and they listened. They want me to form signals in the woods and since I've been seen with Gale the Capitol with think we simply ran off together. The recognition must be plainly on my face, because I see some of the men smiling.

"We need to take supplies and as many women and children as possible through those woods to Thirteen, before the Capitol catches on to us," Laurel says to the whole group.

This surprises me though, I was picturing Gale and I ushering a group of rebel miners. Gale looks confused too. He shares a brief glance with me once more, before he looks around. Everyone seems to start talking at once. Explaining the route, discussing materials and weaponry, and deciding who can be trusted within families. I sit silently by, watching and listening through cotton filled ears.

After an hour more of discussions and plans I feel Hank pulling me up by the elbow to lead me toward the door. My feet feel bogged down as I walk. How will I survive in the woods with refugees? The Capitol will be onto us so fast we'll be dead before we step foot past the fifth mile. Gale is chatting more animatedly with a man beside the doorway. He doesn't say anything to me as I exit. I've just become his "fake" lover, like I've learnt Peeta is to Katniss. They told us that too tonight, that the whole thing between them was a sham. I guess I retained something from the conversations around me. I wish I hadn't heard all the planning though. It would make it easier on me if I get tortured. If I didn't have much use to the Capitol it would be a quick and painful death.

Hank leads me home in silence. When we part in front of my house he finally brings a voice into our quiet existence, "You'll be fine kid. Sleep well and everything will seem like its back to normal in the morning."

I feel a heated anger finally lick to life in me. It's brief, but it fuels the words that escape me, "Is that what you thought it would be like after all those men and women died? That the next morning you would wake up and everything would be back to normal?" I step back from him, walking backwards toward my porch until the heel of my boot hits the bottom step. I see the veiled pain in his eyes, but I am not quite sure how I feel about it.

"I didn't ever feel like things were normal again," I whisper as I finally turn and let myself into my house without a glance over my shoulder. Once inside my silent home, I lean my back up against the door. I let my body focus on inhaling and exhaling.

If I'm still breathing, I'm still alive.

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><p><strong>Wednesday, March 28<strong>**th**** – Midday Work in the Mines**

Today's been like any other day since I learned about my purpose in the rebellion last week. Though nothing felt "normal" when I woke up with night sweats the day after the gathering, it has felt like my rhythm is secure. This morning I kissed my father goodbye on the cheek, almost forgot my hardhat, and packed my usual meager lunch. Bristel's been a real champ about cheering me up and keeping me sane. I peek over at him, smiling as his current story drifts towards me over the din of pounding axes.

"I'm telling you, the ladies love me. They can't get enough of me," Bristel say comically. His swing is large and exaggerated.

Beside me Hank is grinning widely. I think he might be holding back a laugh at the obviously overconfident younger man. Bristel raises his pick axe and slices into the wall. Debris tumbles to his feet. I sigh and continue working. My own pick axe joins the racket of clanking metal. I swing particularly hard and feel a strange vibration through my arms. I decide that I must have held my arms wrong and am about to attempt again.

"Just last week Nadine asked me to show her – " Bristel's voice trails off, catching my attention.

When I look to the side I see that he has stopped moving. The tunnel is silent. Most of the men are standing stock still, staring at the walls. _Did I miss something?_ I place my hand on the earth in front of my face. There is a deep vibration coursing through my palm. I look at Bristel with confusion. His explanation is cut off by something low and booming. It rattles through the ground below our feet and around us. Panic permeates my being as I swivel to catch Hank's eye. The walls are vibrating more roughly, enough that it is visible. Dirt starts to sift off them, showering me in particles. Fear clenches in my throat as the string of lamps that line the ceiling of our tunnel flicker into darkness.

Something is terribly wrong.

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><p>The rumble of the walls collapsing is so violent that I buck forward onto my hands and knees. The pick axe handle stabs me painfully in the stomach before I wrench it away. I glance toward Hank, who is pressed against the left side of the wall. Men are yelling things from all directions. I feel the earth vibrating below my palms. I want to run, but the idea is ludicrous because there is no escape. There is nowhere to hide or seek protection; we are surrounded by thick unforgiving earth.<p>

"Hank!" I yell as another wave of violent shaking occurs.

I have one solitary moment, a clear image in my mind of President Snow holding his finger over a detonator. Perhaps he doesn't like to get his hands too dirty; I would reason he's a hands-off kind of guy.

Then hard pieces of rock are tumbling from all sides. I roll to the right to escape a particularly large chunk. My face presses hard into the dirt beneath me. A hot pain springs up my back. _This is it, the number one way to die in the mine, a collapse. I'm so sorry father. _I close my eyes tightly and press my face into the dirt to muffle my scream as more Earth crumbles around me. Something falls on my hardhat and the sound of shattering glass fills my ears. _There goes my head lamp._ My fear smothers me and I don't think I could cry even if someone cut off both my legs, because the fear has me in its grasp too tight for me to register anything else.

After a few moments, the earth relaxes and the cavern fills with silence. _Am I dead?_ I lift my shaking hands and feel the resistance around them. I'm covered in dirt, stones, and coal. The shaking persists as I force my body into a kneeling position. My back meets my movements with a sharp pain. Debris tumbles off as I sit back on my haunches. Its pitch black, except for about four headlamps scattered throughout my visible space.

My mouth and nose feel full of dust and dirt. It seems to be clogging all my orifices, suffocating me, blinding me. I wipe at it furiously with the rim of my shirt. I spit for good measure and blink particles from my eyes. The nearest headlamp is about four feet away. It is casting an eerie shadow on the wall opposite. Dust floats in front of the light in a hazy cloud. I run my hands along the ground until they meet the cold tip of my axe's metal edge. Grasping it firmly I rise from my spot. The glass from my headlamp crunches below my boot.

I cough dust from my lungs, "Hank?" My voice sounds like a whisper.

I approach the headlamp nearest to me, assuming that it is my trainer. I hear a muffled moan as the toe of my boot hits the man's leg. My eyes struggle to make out his face as I kneel beside him. The darkness is blinding.

"Hank?" I say again as I tentatively reach a hand forward. I remove the man's hardhat and shine the light across him. It's Bristel. My mind struggles to reorient itself, _wasn't Bristel behind me?_

"Bristel, are you hurt?" I muster a note of concern and press my free hand to his chest.

He's breathing heavily. He doesn't respond, but as I shine the lamp further down his torso I see a great boulder rising into my site. It is flanking his right side with his leg trapped beneath it. The shear mass of the object is enough to make my head spin.

"Oh Bristel," I murmur and place the headlamp on the ground beside me. The light bathes him in an eerie white. My heart leaps into my chest because his face is contorted in vicious pain.

I place my hands on his stubbly face and urge him to look at me, "I'm going to get this off you. I need you to tell me if anything else hurts."

His eyes are brimming with water as he stares into my face. He coughs but it is impaired by dust and dirt. I spit into my hands several times to clean some of the dirt from my palms before I use my fingers to wipe at his mouth. Rough, scratchy dirt meets my fingertips. He chokes on it as I try to free him from the grainy mouthful.

"My right arm -" he pauses for a moment to gasp back the pain, "The rocks rolled over it." I run my hand down from his shoulder to his wrist and hear him suck in a breath. This complicates things more. It's definitely broken. I swallow hard.

"How bad is it?" He asks faintly. I grimace because that's a question I don't want to answer.

My palm glides across his pained expression, trying to reassure him. All I can do is shake my head, _It's not good._ I can't leave him this way, the boulder is probably cutting off his circulation. I don't know the slightest thing about crushing injuries. In the Hunger Games tributes have died of blood clots from internal injuries. The idea of Bristel perishing from such a thing is just unreal. I desperately wish I knew how to help him, or what was best.

"As soon as the walls started collapsing I tried to get to you," Bristel whispers. My heart sinks. _Maybe if he had stayed where he was, he wouldn't be this injured._

"I was going to throw my body over yours. Thought it would give you better protection from the rocks." I rub my thumb over his cheek and try to muster a small smile of thanks.

"We have to get this off," I gesture toward the boulder.

He smirks at me weakly, "I don't think I'm going to be much help with that darling."

I try to push the fear away from me and smile at him, "You're never much help." He releases a soft laugh and squeezes his eyes shut.

Seeing him in pain like this makes my chest hurt. Something about this reality seems false. It's cruel and awful. Just moments ago Bristel was laughing, joking, and telling us another unlikely story. Now, he's dangling on an imaginary thread. One that can be severed with one wrong move. The silence of the tunnel is deafening as I ponder how to help my injured crewmate. _Are we the only ones alive?_

I stand and run my hands along the edges of the large boulder. My arms barely stretch around it. My heart sinks into the bottom of my stomach at the realization that I will never be able to move it alone. I glance at the other headlamps. Only one of them is moving, at the far end. A flicker of hope bursts inside me at the site. I return my focus to the task at hand. Bristel is watching me with apprehension. I push the boulder testily with both my palms. It moves very slightly, but Bristel's resounding hiss alerts me that rolling it off him will be too painful.

"Hey! You! Moving down there! Are you hurt?" I yell to the farthest headlamp. It turns my way and I shield my eyes from the brightness with my right forearm. A sense of relief fills my body; the other person must be alright if they can swivel so quickly in my direction.

A low voice responds, "Nothing that can't be fixed. What about _you_ kid?"

I sigh gratefully, because that voice can only belong to Artie, who is two or three times my size. He'll be able to lift this boulder in a heartbeat. I smile again. Things seem a little less dismal now, but only slightly, "No, I'm fine. Bristel is hurt pretty badly though. Can you reach us?"

I look down into the pained face below me. His eyes are assessing me. His usual mirthful expression has been completely erased. I try to give him a reassuring look and lightly squeeze his shoulder in an attempt to show him that things will be alright. I hear movement as I presume that Artie is throwing Debris aside.

"On the way," He yells back, "Let me check these men between us. Is your lamp out? You could keep moving on from Bristel and check the others." I glance at Bristel's headlamp on the ground beside us.

"Mine smashed, but I have his," I yell. Bristel nods for me to take it. I rest my hand softly on his left cheek again and assure him that I will be right back. He nods once more and murmurs a thank you. I place my hardhat next to him before I rise again on shaky legs. His hardhat smells like sweat, but I put it on my head without a second thought.

I shakily walk towards Artie, scanning the beam of the headlamp across the ground to make sure that I don't miss anyone else who was unfortunate enough to lose their lamp like me. After a few steps a foot appears at the farthest edge of my beam of light. I walk quickly towards it. The light creeps up the man's body, revealing that he is almost completely covered in earth and debris. His headlamp light isn't visible because his face and 90% of his body are buried. I gasp and rush to his side. I begin to throw debris off him haphazardly. _Where is his face? Where is he?_ My mind screams in my ears. The debris seems never-ending, but eventually the red brim of his hardhat peers out from the rubble. I work more hastily once I see it. My fingers feel numb with ache. Dirt is burrowing into my nail beds with a steady sting.

The next thing to reveal itself is his nose, poking out at me. I try to calm my shaking hands and to be gentler as I wipe the remaining dirt from his face. _Harper, m_y mind gasps his name. I lean my face in close to see if I hear him breathing, but I can't tell over the rushing of the pulse in my ears. I realize that there is hot sticky ooze on my fingers. Blood. It's seeping from his nose. The metallic smell rises up, stinging my clogged senses.

"Harper, can you hear me?" My voice sounds loud and strangled.

My thumbs run across his cheeks as I cup his face in my hands. This man is no older than twenty-five, _too young to die when you've survived the reaping_. He just got married two years ago to Lynx Alexander. I remember her sister talking about the toasting at school. Lynx is expecting a baby in two months time. It was only last Sunday that I saw her wobbling through the square on her way to the bakery, her round belly too large for her coat. My throat feels tight and I pinch my eyes closed to fight back the tears that are threatening to spill.

"Harper,_ please_," my voice is strangled and merely more than a whisper now.

I will never be able to face his wife again if he dies here. I can't let his unborn baby grow without him, like Posy, who's father died before he knew she graced the world. He never even knew she was a girl, the first in the family. Harper should be there when his child is born. He should get the chance to feel the excitement and trepidation. He deserves to know whether his creation of life is a boy or girl. I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder and look up into the blackened face of Artie.

I choke back a sob, "His wife. She's having a baby."

I don't know why I am compelled to tell him this. He stares at me sadly and pushes me aside. He examines Harper's face before he shoves more debris off the man's chest. I watch helplessly, not even willing to crawl away and cry. Artie's large palms make quick work of the things covering Harper's chest.

"I need you to help me kid." He looks over his shoulder at me. Even my eyes feel like they are quivering as I look at his steady placid face. I see it though, the pain. It's barely there, just in the borders of his eyes.

"He's still breathing, but barely," Artie's voice is stern and almost fatherly. He is trying to soothe me; _he needs me to get ahold of myself_. I nod, furiously wiping at the two teardrops that have escaped my defenses.

"Clear off his legs. I want as much of him uncovered as possible," he commands.

Artie continues removing debris and I slide up next to him. My shoulder presses softly against his as I begin working on the dirt that is covering our companion from the waist down. As we throw rocks aside they make soft thuds on impact. Each sound reverberates on the silent walls. It's sickly, a staccato of beats that form a wicked death march.

Bristel's soft voice floats towards us from behind, "Who is it?" He sounds worried and unsure if he should ask. I bite my lip and glance at Artie, who is too concerned with the task at hand to answer.

"It's Harper, he's buried," I yell over my shoulder. My voice vibrates off the walls, louder than the echo of our thrown rocks. Something about it is sinister.

"Is he still breathing?" Is the timid reply. I throw a rock that spans the width of both my hands before I respond, "Yeah, barely." Bristel stays quiet this time.

Suddenly a thought occurs to me, _who did Artie find on the way to me_? I glance at the headlamps that lay in the tunnel. Three of them between me and the place where Artie was before. He watches my line of vision as he works. He sees the question in my eyes before it has even left my lips. He nods grimly, his face now masked in pain.

_They're all dead._ The thought sears into the core of my being. My mind reels with the realization of it. I numbly keep my hands moving over Harper's body. _Who was standing between me and Artie today? _I count the men in my crew mentally. Me, Artie, Harper, Bristel, Jim, Knox, Nat, and Hank…

"HANK!" I yell suddenly. Artie jumps beside me and grabs my arms quickly as I try to leap up. His timeworn eyes plead with me to stay where I am, begging me not to lose myself.

"No, no, no," I chant as he shakes me slightly, trying to knock sense into me. He nods before squeezing me to his chest. A fresh batch of hot tears stings my eyes and spill out rapidly.

I wail as Artie wraps his arms around me, "You can't help him. Shhh, shhhh. No, you need to help Harper now. You hear me? Harper and Bristel need you kid." His voice is almost yelling over my wails. I try desperately to stop myself.

Now Artie has me pressed against his chest and is patting my back like my father would when I had nightmares after mother died. My fists cling to his shirt as I try to will away my tears. Abruptly, my back begins to ache with the sharp pains from earlier. Each pat from his hand feels like a hammer. The steady beat of his palm doesn't extinguish the horror. I am not dreaming, this is not a nightmare…this is reality.

"Sidney," Bristel's voice is calling to me once more, reaching through the blackness. He sounds incredibly weak. I sniffle in response and try to unclamp my hands. _Bristel needs me, Harper needs me, Artie needs me_. I chant the words over and over in my head to calm myself. _I can't let my men down. I can't let my crew down._ I release a final sob as my hands finally allow Artie relief. _Woman up, you are just as capable as any man; you bleed the same as any man and you'll die like them if you don't do something about it. _

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. Artie's eyes speak volumes of hurt. These are his men too. We need to work together. I bite my bottom lip and pull the bravest face I can get together, which is probably not the best what with the coal dust and tear stains. My chest is still heaving with an invisible struggle as I fight the sobs that want to escape.

"I can do this, Artie. I'm getting my men out. Every last one of them, even if I have to _die _trying," I finally grit out.

Artie inhales deeply and nods. He approves, he's happy that I've come to my senses. He's happy that I've outwardly expressed that these men are more than my crew and I will not leave any of them behind. These men deserve to get to the surface, not to die and be left in unfathomable graves. I clench my jaw and return to helping uncover Harper. In a few more minutes we have him completely uncovered. Artie assures me that Harper is still breathing.

When I lean in to press my ear against the man's lips, I hear ragged breaths of air. Now that Harper has no weight on his body we go back to help Bristel. When both of our lamps find him I see that the coloring in his face has changed slightly. When I reach my hand to his forehead it feels clammy and warm. I smile at him reassuringly as Artie assesses the damage. The older man lets out a low whistle.

"Bristel, you won't have to make any tall tales about this one," Artie says softly. The half-joke lightens Bristel's expression slightly.

Artie instructs me to pull Bristel when he lifts the biggest rock. When the boulder lifts slightly I grasp at his pant leg and pull with all my weight until I fall onto my behind. He groans loudly and I whisper apologies to him and tell him he's a good sport, "I'll let you crack jokes at me for an eternity after this. I'll sing whatever you want too." He exhales a short laugh and looks at me with approval. We prop him against the wall.

Artie leaves for a moment. When he returns he provides Bristel with a canteen of water and a hardhat that has a working headlamp. I eye it suspiciously, knowing that it came from one of our dead crewmates. I push the disgust away and hug Bristel, which makes him blush slightly. I press a soft kiss to his forehead, like I do with my father when he is in pain.

"We'll be out of here before you know it. Stay strong," I say to him as I pull away. His blush has deepened, but he smiles through it.

"Listen, we have to assess the damage on both ends of the tunnel. We have two men missing," Artie says. I shiver as Artie reminds me about the thing that has been nagging the back of my mind since the collapse. His eyes find mine again with that fatherly look.

"Gale and Mortin." I whisper.

Bristel looks at me sadly. Gale and Mortin were much farther in than the rest of us, doing some preliminary work. They were assessing which direction to dig the next bend in the tunnel. We had run into a particularly hard portion of bedrock this morning that needed to be trailed around. My heart is beating more rapidly now as I let the thought of Gale overcome me. I haven't forgotten him; I've been ignoring the reality that he might be dead.

After we feel that Bristel is fine where he is, we decide to drag Harper to him. "Keep an eye on him," Artie says in an even voice.

Although it isn't clear how watching the man will help at all, I realize that the words are mostly to calm us. Words to make Bristel feel like he's actively doing something. With the two of them settled, we begin walking through the rubble toward the end of the tunnel where Gale and Mortin last were. We climb over several obstacles, but my mind isn't too focused. Instead I am tallying the destruction of my crew. _Ten people, currently four alive, four dead, two missing._

"Artie, why didn't the entire tunnel collapse and suffocate us all?" I ask suddenly aware that we are less buried then we should be. Artie scans the ceiling above us, letting his headlamp glide along the jagged rocks above.

"Well, it looks like this tunnel was made of a lot more rock than a miner would normally like. Heck, it probably saved us though. Kept the structure of the tunnel solid," Artie's voice is sure and steady once again. He can speak soundly about anything to do with mining. I nod in agreement with his assessment of the situation and brace myself for the first body we come upon.

It's Hank. I know from the boots that adorn his feet. Artie pulls me roughly away from him before I can even set my eyes upon the rest of his body. He shakes his head, indicating I shouldn't look. When we pass the bodies of Jim, Nat, and Knox I avert my eyes as well. A tingling sensation shoots across my spine as I briefly think about each man. When it comes time to get them out I will help, but right now I need my brain to function. I need to find Gale and Mortin, one of whom I can't live without and the other of which I despise, but would never wish death upon.

As we approach the deep end of our tunnel my heart begins to waver. In the light of the headlamps a massive pile of rubble reveals its gruesome face. My eyes widen as it fully comes into view. The pile seems to have formed a wall between us and the tunnel beyond. Artie raises his pick axe beside me and looks at it helplessly. He is probably thinking what I am thinking; _this thing is going to be goddamn useless against rocks that size. _

"Well kid, let's start digging," he says. We both approach the pile and Artie hesitantly drives his pick axe into the barrier. Large chunks of rock break off and fall to the floor. I follow his movements at the opposite end.

My side of the barrier feels more like dirt than rock, so I drop my axe and start pawing at it with my fingers. The dirt clogs the underside of my short fingernails, bringing back the sting of the dirt that had buried Harper. I feel my wrist slide through after a couple of swipes. Excitedly I turn to my companion, "Artie! This side!"

He shines his lamp at my wrist which looks like it is missing a hand. It would be comical if the situation weren't so dire. A smile spreads across his lips as he helps me dig. Together we uncover a hole about the size of my thin shoulders. Unfortunately, the area around the hole is pure rock. I look at him helplessly as we come to the realization. Artie uses his axe and takes a couple hard swings, but the rock is too thick. I try to force my head through the hole, but it is a bit higher than my height. However, my attempt has given Artie an idea. I can tell because I watch the expression move across his features. He slides his eyes up and down my body and looks back at the hole, comparing me to it.

"This hole, it's about the size of the widest part of you. If I give you a hand, you could shove through, look for them and then come back and find me for help." I nod in agreement and glance back at the hole. _If both of them are dead, there won't be anyone to help me through on the other side. _

Artie senses my unease and continues, "I'll keep digging on this end. I'll let Bristel know what's happening. Maybe someone will have come for us by then. More help." He's right, so I don't try to disagree.

He grabs me around the waste so that I can reach my arms and head through the hole. My headlamp shines at the ground on the other side and I see that I can step on a rock to get out. I shimmy my middle until I am almost completely through the hole. Then, Artie helps lower me by my feet. Once I have reoriented myself I stand on the rock and peer back through the hole at him. He looks at me quizzically until I explain that I am standing on something.

I smile softly and say, "Alright then. I'll be back." He nods and tells me to be careful, just like any father would.

Before I leave he passes my pickaxe through the hole. With our last farewell I trudge onward. After quite some time I come to a second pile of rubble, but I climb over it in a matter of moments. When my head crests the top of it I see a light up ahead and my heart jumps into my throat. _This is it, alive or dead._ I lower myself on the other side and turn around shakily. The light isn't moving. I swallow the lump that I feel and step tentatively forward.

"Gale? Mortin?" My voice echoes in the silence that envelopes me.

With every step I am closer to the light, but there is no sound or movement. As I approach I realize that the light is very low to the ground. Whoever it is, must be hurt because their hardhat is projecting light low on the wall. I press my palm against my beating heart and hear that rush of pulse in my ears again. As I get closer though, confusion begins to fill my mind. When the hardhat is finally in my light's beam I see what has really happened. There is no body. It's just a hardhat, precariously tipped on its side. I grasp it between my palms and peer inside, wondering where the man it belongs to is. A name is scrawled in black ink across the inside brim, _Hawthorne._ And just like that, my heart is beating a mile a minute again. _Where is he? _

Frantically I look in the surrounding area, but there isn't anyone. I walk a few paces further. His pick axe is laying half under a pile of dirt a few paces ahead. My light shoots around dizzyingly as I swivel my head in all directions. Then I see it, a hand reaching through another pile of debris.

"GALE!" I shout as I rush towards it. It wriggles in response and retracts into a hole.

"Sidney?" Is the muffled reply. My cry of joy shakes my body and vibrates in the air. I place my face close to the hole and feel my facial muscles stiffen with excessive smiling.

"Gale!" I sob into the darkness, reaching my fingers through. I feel his fingers grasp mine tightly. Then his warm lips press a kiss into my palm. Electricity shoots up my arm from his touch. I feel a steady buzzing in my brain. He's never shown me this kind of affection before. My heart skips rapidly in response. _Alive_, my mind is bursting with the word.

"Are you hurt?" I squeeze his hand.

"Yes," is all the response I get. His voice is chalky and quiet.

My elation falls quickly, "What is it?" I ask tenderly and run my thumb over his knuckles.

He tallies his injuries back to me "Leg, foot, head. And Mortin's breathing, but hasn't woken up. Looks like his arm is shattered." I nod, even though he can't see me. _They're alive! Ten people in this crew, six alive, four dead. _The mental tally seeps back through my conscious.

"Gale I want you to move Mortin far back. I'm going to try and use my pick axe to dig you out." His grunt in response tells me that he is already trying to do just that.

I swing my axe as hard as I can into the debris. A good portion of it cuts loose and cascades like water before it pools at my feet. I swing again and again. This pile has multiple large rocks. I rim the edges of them with my hand, loosening the dirt that surrounds them. Gale starts digging from the other side. He tells me he had been resting from digging when I arrived.

Minutes pass and it feels like an eternity. Finally a hole large enough for me to fit through appears. My lamp shines into Gale's chest as I peer through at him. He's filthy, but the site of his face is the most beautiful thing I have ever encountered. My eyes brim with tears as I throw my pick axe aside and scramble through the hole. His warm hands grasp for me as I shimmy through. A sound escapes his throat as he runs his hands over me, searching for injuries, unbelieving that I am whole and here in front of his very eyes. I cringe when his hands run over the ache in my back.

We crash together, hugging each other intensely and then his hands are grasping my face. I look at him with fascination, _what is he doing? _The thought is shoved from my mind when his lips cover mine. He kisses me feverishly while tears trail down my cheeks and into his palms. I feel like I am on fire as his lips devour me. An ambiguous noise escapes my throat as he pulls away.

"Damn it, Sidney." His voice is thick as he presses me to his chest. I'm sure that my hardhat is digging into his shoulder, but he doesn't push it away. I am still shell-shocked at the fact that he just kissed me like it was the last thing we would ever do together.

"I thought I would never see you again," he chokes out. I look up and see that he is on the verge of tears. It amazes me, because he is the strongest person I know. His grey eyes are glossy and so beautiful. I just nod my head multiple times at his words, indicating that I thought the same about him. We both laugh bitterly.

Then I let out a gasp of realization, I've forgotten already about, " - Mortin." Gale looks rightfully confused for a moment and then leans on his good leg to pivot and show me the man in question.

"The others?" He asks me expectantly as I inspect Mortin's injury gently.

His question is loaded and I avert my eyes for a moment before I answer, "Artie and I are practically fine. Bristel has a broken arm and leg. Harper was buried. He is still breathing, but we don't know what can be done for him."

I stop and let the silence that follows wisp around us. His eyebrows knit together. He opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it again. After a moment his voice pushes through the void, "So, four men are dead."

It's more of a statement than a question, but I nod solemnly.

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed the long awaited chapter. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and stuck by this story as it has grown. And..thank you to anyone who has hasn't left a review, but has read the story anyway, because I know that's how I roll sometimes too. **


	10. Chapter 10: Names Without Faces

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Thanks to Fnur for being an awesome beta when I ask her to help me out. Thanks to anyone who has recommended this story to a friend as well!**

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><p><strong>Wednesday, March 28<strong>**th ****- After the Collapse**

Gale and I are silent as we stand facing away from each other. I allow him this time to absorb the knowledge that half our crew is dead. Mortin begins to stir. He emits a low groan. I stand over him, peering into his pained face and readying myself to help him.

"Ah, fuck…" he groans, wincing as he tries to sit up. His breath hisses as his bad arm swings slightly to the side.

"Careful Mortin, it looks like you might have broken your arm," I say as I lean over him, trying to get a better look at his head to check for any injuries. He must have been knocked out at some point. He groans once more as I gently press my fingers to his scalp. There are no abrasions, but it must be tender to the touch.

"Artie's back at the collapse trying to dig a way for us to get you both out," I explain for Mortin's benefit.

"I wasn't expecting this," Mortin frowns as he looks around the tunnel. The wall look as though they may fold in at any moment here.

"Of course you weren't, no one expects a collapse! We know it's possible, but we tell ourselves it won't happen," Gale grits out.

He's annoyed at the silly nature of the comment. It would be foolish to think it isn't possible, but just as foolish to constantly think about it. Thoughts like those can eat a miner up inside.

"Come on," I say as I try to loop my arm around Mortin's waist to help him up.

Gale's better suited to helping with the man though. He easily braces himself against Mortin's body, helping to steer him toward the area where I came in. It's difficult to fit Mortin through the area that Gale and I cleared for my passage. His injured arm is jostled easily and he constantly emits sounds of pain. We manage it though and soon we are slowly making our way toward Artie. Gale's bad leg makes it slow going as well. He doesn't make a single noise about his troubles though, contrary to Mortin's barrage of noises. Gale retrieves his pickaxe and headlamp from the area in which I found them.

Making our way down the tunnel feels like ages longer than when I traveled the path alone. With my fear subsiding I can focus more clearly on the damage that's been done to the tunnel. After a short while we hear the tell-tale clink-clink-clink of Artie hammering away at the massive tunnel blockage. Gale whistles when he sees the enormity of it. As we approach we can see the ray of light from Artie's lamp.

"Artie, they're both here," I shout ahead of us. The man stops for a moment and peers through the large hole he's made. His smile is large and the relief in his expression is evident.

"Alright boys?" He asks. Gale and Mortin grunt in response, which appears to be enough of an answer. Artie continues hammering away until we are close enough to gauge our ability to get through the hole. We determine its good enough and as gently as possible I help Mortin maneuver himself through.

Artie immediately slaps one of his large hands on each of their backs. My men nod their gratitude at seeing each other alive, even if they aren't completely whole. We'll probably never be "whole" again after this. Suddenly I remember that Artie has been through this terrible ordeal several times now. Once is too many times for me, I can't imagine how he doesn't lose his mind.

We begin to journey back toward Bristel, but when we come across the first dead body Artie stops abruptly. He looks back at me and then at the other two men.

"We should bring them closer to the entrance, in case someone comes for us," Artie says as he nods down at the man. I close my eyes briefly and hear the rushing of my own pulse in my ears. _You can do this, you can do this; don't break down again, _I don't trust myself to listen to my own advice.

Gale kneels down beside the completely buried man. It's Knox. He's been crushed by the rocks and the sheer force of the ceiling collapsing on him. Only his head is visible under the pile of rubble. Mortin leans gingerly against the wall as Gale and Artie begin to unbury the first of our deceased men. His lifeless body is twisted in an odd angle that makes my stomach churn. At some point I find myself falling to my knees, my numb fingers removing the smaller debris at his feet. With three people working at it, we are able to uncover him more quickly than Artie and I had managed earlier as we worked on helping Harper.

I grip one of Knox's large biceps between both my palms as Artie and Gale grab his other arm and both his legs. We slowly move towards the next body in the tunnel with Mortin trailing slowly behind us. He hasn't spoken since we met up with Artie. I almost wish he would say something so that I could feel anything other than this empty void in my chest. The next man we find is Nat. This time the void in my chest seems to evolve into a steady ache. I think about his children. His daughter inspired me to sing at the festival. Her innocence and beauty filled me with the desire to cultivate my rebellious thoughts.

Nat looks unharmed as if he is simply sleeping, slumped against the wall with one of his legs covered in the dirt. His arms rest on top of his chest as though he were holding his heart as he died. When Gale shifts Nat's body forward to lay him out I see that there is a large sharp rock lodged in his back. It must have impaled him. He must have struggled to continue breathing for until he finally succumbed and fell against the wall.

"Take it out, his daughter can't see that," I find myself talking, though the thoughts didn't seem to reach my brain before they made their way to my mouth. Gale obliges. He gently slides the jagged spear-like rock from Nat's back and throws it roughly into the dirt.

This time Mortin tries to help as we move the two bodies toward our next fallen crew member. Artie bows his head into the little cavern that has concealed Jim. I can just barely see the pained expression that sealed itself on Jim's face. The wall beside him folded over him in an almost shelf-like fashion. He must have felt himself slowly being crushed. He's so entrapped that neither Artie nor Gale can seem to make the area around him budge. Artie's expression shows that he's determined not to leave the man. I begin to cry when he pulls on Jim's arm so hard that we hear the pop of a bone. By some sort of grace, his body suddenly works loose a few minutes later.

I grimace when I know that all we have left to do I retrieve Hank's body. We first line the three men up alongside each other. In silence we walk toward our fallen leader. Artie tries to block me from viewing the body, but it doesn't do much use. I set one glance on my partner and promptly turn to vomit. Hank's skull has been crushed by fallen rocks. The jagged large rocks are like the face of the ceiling that Artie had shown me earlier.

My stomach convulses repeatedly as the vomit continuous to propel itself out of me. Hot tears accompany it and continue after the torrent of vile sickness has ceased. I've seen head wounds like that during broadcasts of the games, but it is different when you know the person. It is different when you see the person's brains.

Gale quickly covers my vomit with dirt to quell the smell that will be trapped in the tunnel. He retrieves his thermos and splashes some of the warm water against my face. I nod my thanks and allow him to fold me against his chest as Artie gently lines Hank's mangled body in a parallel position beside Nat. When the act is finished I pull my face away from Gale's shoulder to quickly look at our men.

The image of them lined evenly in a silent slumber feels like a hapless dream. As though I have drifted into some strange ghost land where my friends sleep eternally in a dark grave. _They are names without faces_, I note. Men whose appearances have been distorted and altered, but whose spirits live on in us.

Even if we rise from the depths of the mine they will spend forever underground, until they rot and become dust. Once they are brought to the surface they will only be presented to their families for mass burial. It doesn't matter that they escape here, even in death they will be a prisoner of the earth. _The only difference is they'll be six feet under its surface_.

Bristel's voice shakes me from my thoughts and my ears are filled with the sounds of my remaining men as they move around the entrance to our tunnel, "Sidney, come back and sit with me for a while."

I heed Bristel's request and go back to lean against the wall next to him and Harper. Harper hasn't made any progress since I left and Bristel's skin looks paler than before. My hand rests on the ground beside Bristel's. We sit in each other's comfort for a while, watching as Gale and Artie gather the lunch pails and supplies. They unbury things as they talk softly with each other. Mortin rests his head on his good arm as he leans against the boulder that crushed Bristel's limbs.

"They'll come for us soon, lovely," Bristel says as he pats my hand gently. I just nod.

"Yes!" Gale exclaims as his palms come into contact with the most important box in this tunnel, the meager first aid kit.

I watch as he rifles through it looking for anything helpful. His expression of elation is gone as quickly as it came. Of course, there isn't much of worth in the kit. He pulls out a small bottle of pain medicine and shimmies a few pills into his palm. He distributes them evenly between Bristel, himself, and Mortin. It's all we have, but they all quickly consume the only relief they will have from their injuries.

"Here, let's ration up this food too. We'll eat a small bit now and a larger bit if we're still here tomorrow," Artie says as he passes a few pails our way.

"How do you even know what time it is?" Mortin asks as he takes some bread from the pail he is sharing with Bristel.

"Well, I figure it's gotta be almost dinner. It was mid-day when the collapse happened," Artie explains.

"Sounds about right to me," Gale agrees. I trust that their instincts are probably right. Gale essentially has an internal clock, so he has to be right. Besides that, my stomach is beginning to scratch with hunger. _I wonder if my father has eaten_._ Is he taking care of himself?_ He's probably waiting with thousands of Seam residents at the entrance to the mine. I hope that he brought himself warm clothing and food to keep his strength up. _Don't forget your medicine_, I silently plee with him. _If Hazelle finds him at the ropes, she'll surely force him to think of himself_.

Gale opens his pail to share with me. He rips his meager sandwich in half and places one of them in my dirty palm. I don't even try to waste water on washing the dirt from my hands. I just slowly eat the food that's been offered. I've lost the ability to taste anyway. When I've finished I look at the men in their various states of pain. My eyes fall on Mortin, whose injury I think I can at least somewhat help.

"I'll try to make a sling for your arm Mortin, it's swelling a lot," I offer.

He nods and looks down at the purple flesh on his forearm. It rests limp against his leg. I take one of the bandage rolls from within the first aid kit and snap the handle off one of the pails to make a rod for his arm. As gently as I can I fasten the rod and cloth bandages around his arm to keep it straight. I try not to wrap the cloth too tightly over his swelling flesh.

"Thanks," he whispers. His snide remarks and haughty nature has vanished in this turbulent atmosphere of destruction and death. I'm grateful for the reprieve.

As time passes we agree to turn off our headlamps to conserve the light and to prompt ourselves to rest. For at least an hour or two there isn't a sound in the tunnel, except for the quiet breathing of our crew-mates. Once I think I hear someone crying, but I can't tell who it is. Bristel lays down to rest, murmuring that he doesn't feel well.

If I didn't have the physical presence of my eyelids I would think that my eyes were closed. Everything around us is blacker than even the darkest night. I rest my head on Gale's shoulder and fall into a hazy sleep.

* * *

><p>When I wake again, my neck aches and the men are whispering to each other.<p>

"Is something wrong?" I ask blearily.

Artie clears his throat and replies, "Bristel is a little worse off than we thought." My heart clenches. _What can possibly get worse than what we've experienced so far?_

"I think I deserve that song now, canary." Bristel's voice is soft, laced with exertion and pain.

I crawl toward him in the darkness. I nearly knee him in the face, because the blackness prevents me from seeing him. He releases a muffled laugh against my pant leg. I sit close, gripping his hand between both my palms. He squeezes my fingers softly. There is a shuffling noise behind me. Gale has crawled next to me, his scent and the warmth of his body settle in the darkness.

I allow one of my hands to trail up Bristel's arm, slowly feeling my way toward his face. The skin feels hot and clammy, which is worrying. I place the back of my hand over his forehead and let the heat from his skin seep into mine. His fever may be indicative of blood poisoning. There is little hope that we will be found soon enough to save him from it. In this fragile state, I realize that I must soothe him because it is the only thing I can do.

I feel his facial muscles pull into a smile as I place both hands on his roasting skin. I let my hands guide my lips toward their destination. The aim is off and I slightly undershoot, my kiss falls on his eyebrow instead of the target skin above it. The second time I hit my objective, right in the middle of his heated forehead. My dry lips meet the moisture of his skin before I pull back slightly.

"Everything will be alright Bristel; what do you want me to sing?" I feel his hot breath on my face as I pull back a few inches. He sighs and then a soft laugh escapes his lips.

"I'm in love with a coal miner's daughter; do you know any songs for that?" He asks.

The men laugh behind me. The idea of Bristel actually loving a girl is a bit absurd. He is serious though. I feel his features tighten under my palms. Gale is murmuring to Artie something about how everyone's in love with one of those at one time or another. Artie and Mortin's laughter fades after a few moments. I feel Gale's hand stroking my sore back. The sensation is calming my nerves. Yet, his soothing hand is unable to placate the fear for Bristel and Harper that has settled inside me.

"I know one song, but it's about a miller's daughter. Is that close enough?" Bristel chuckles, causing his breath to puff across my face heartily. I take that as a 'yes' and begin singing softly to him.

"By a river there's a little orchard,

In the orchard stood the miller's daughter.

In the orchard stood the miller's daughter.

Apple, apple, fallen in the water,

By the stream I kissed the miller's daughter.

By the stream I kissed the miller's daughter."

I hope that he is able to imagine his girl's face, waiting for him by a stream. The song intends for you to understand that kissing this maiden is as natural as an apple falling from a tree. Like gravity. The narrator is drawn to her, falling helplessly into watery depths that carry him away. As the words flow gently in the darkened space, Bristel turns his head to press his lips inside my left palm, much like Gale did earlier. For the second time, I feel confusion at the action. The final line reverberates against the earthen walls and is followed by thick silence.

"Thank you," Bristel says faintly.

His voice sounds weaker than it did only moments ago. I incline my head to his chest to check the beating of his heart. It is unbalanced and sluggish. Panic overcomes me. His heart feels as if it will give out any moment.

"Don't you dare die on me, damn it," I hiss at him, reaching for the pulse point on his neck. It beats faintly against my fingertips. Gale has stopped smoothing his hand over my back. He's pulled himself alongside me and I feel his large palm pressing down over Bristel's chest, feeling the faint beat of our friend's heart.

"Bristel, not yet. They're coming for us. You just need to hold on; your miner's daughter is waiting on the surface." My voice is urgent. I feel his hand weakly gripping my forearm. He can't leave yet; he has so much more living to do. _They'll come for us soon._ My mind assures me for the millionth time.

"No," Bristel says softly, "You're right here."

It takes me a moment to realize I am his coal miner's daughter. That I am the girl he is yearning to see before he dies. Something about the paradox is pungent. Gale inhales sharply beside me. Words are lost between all of us, like they have been sucked from within us and pulled out of reach. I silently thank the heavens that Mortin has enough sense to keep his snide remarks to himself.

"Oh, Bristel. I'm sorry I didn't know," I say, stroking his clammy face once more. His deep chuckle shakes through his chest and vibrates against my knees.

"Gale?" Bristel reaches for our companion, "You take good care of her. She deserves the best."

A headlamp switches on, bathing the scene in an eerie white light. Artie holds the hardhat above us. I can see the light quivering slightly across Bristel's pained face. He is so pale that it nearly makes me sick. His good hand is gripping Gale's tightly, while his broken arm lies limply beside him. The deep look in Bristel's silver eyes is mirrored in Gale's. Some sort of silent exchange is passing between them. Gale is nodding at him slowly. He pulls back, allowing me to fill the space that he has vacated.

"You're any man's equal. Probably better than most," Bristel says. His lips smirk slightly as he speaks. There are tears threatening my eyes with sharp stings. I nod weakly, trying to smile at his compliment.

"You get them out of here, promise me," he says, his voice more firm.

My hands slide to his face once more as I nod furiously. My voice is choking in my throat, words unwilling to fall. Several of my tears drip onto his dirty cheek, before they carve a path through the grime and slip across my fingers.

"Tell me a joke," I finally tell him.

He laughs again and closes his eyes briefly. When they open again I can tell he is slowly losing his grip on reality. His eyes slide back and forth across my face in the pale light.

"What do ducks like to eat in their soup?" He says at last. I look at him with a puzzled expression on my face, because I would rather eat _duck_ soup. I raise my shoulders, indicating I don't know.

"Quackers," he states simply. I smile at him and laugh lightly. Both Artie and Gale chuckle as well. Mortin remains silent, thankfully. Perhaps watching someone die is the one thing that he actually feels bad about.

"That was my favorite joke when I was a kid," Bristel informs me.

It's sweet, because despite all the sarcastic comments he has in his repertoire he has chosen a silly childhood memory instead. His eyes scan my face, memorizing the features. I smile at him as best I can; trying desperately to hold back more tears.

"Stay with me. Until it's over."

His voice is softer once more, fragile almost. My fingers are gripping his tightly, urging him to stay. _Just a little longer_. I lean close and press my lips against his. It is a soft kiss, friendly and tender. His eyes remain closed as I pull away.

"Of course. Would you like me to sing to you some more?"

He smiles at my words and squeezes my hand again. I let him press it to his lips once more as I softly sing him the Valley Song and then a few lullabies. Tears are streaming down my face freely as I sing him an old wedding tune. He'll never be married now. Even if he's an insufferable jerk sometimes, he would make a girl happy. He would be a fine husband, a good provider. I can deny it all I want, but he _has_ been a good friend. Protecting me at the whipping, keeping me company, supporting me in the rebel cause.

I sing to him for what feels like hours, letting my voice grow hoarse. I can tell that time is passing, because I feel the scratch of hunger in my stomach. He never takes his eyes off me, even when they become unfocused with a hazy look. I keep singing even when his hand goes limp in mine. My voice breaks as I finish the last few lines about the miller's daughter.

I lay my head on his silent chest. My ear is only met with the scratch of my skin against the rigid cloth of his shirt. There are no breaths, no heartbeats. I inhale deeply, trying to memorize his smell. I don't recognize it enough, which makes me feel guilty somehow. I don't have him set to memory like I do Gale. I wrap my arms around Bristel, but no tears come. I've run the well dry, drained every drop of my sorrow.

The silence is punctuated by Artie's voice as he prays softly. His words are lovely and perfect. Not many people speak prayers any more in Panem. After a while, Gale gingerly removes me from Bristel's chest. He runs his palm over his friend's eyes, closing the lids gently. He looks like he is sleeping, almost peaceful in death. I glance toward Harper, who is still unconscious. _Will he die too?_ I watch sadly as the other men pull Bristel's body away. Now all of our dead crewmates are lined neatly in a row, resting serenely beside each other.

When they return a second headlamp is lit to provide light to eat by. Mortin wordlessly shoves a tin lunch pail into my shaking hands. I open it and stare down at the uneaten dinner. One of the crew members had brought this meal to eat during the dinner break. I pick up the lid and glance at the name written inside. _Tardive_. This is Nat's food. His wife probably packed this for him or maybe his sweet beautiful daughter. The daughter who inspired my first act of rebellion; _what will I say to her? How will I ever make her understand what kind of man he was?_ Artie watches me examine Nat's name. I briefly feel the warmth of his large hand on my shoulder. He squeezes reassuringly before he bites into a sandwich from a separate pail.

"We should conserve the rest; we don't know how long we'll be down here," Gale declares as he examines the pile of packed meals. We all nod in agreement.

Once we have all finished eating we lay down to rest. Artie turns off both of the lamps and we are engulfed in darkness once more.

"What was wrong with Bristel?" I ask the stagnant air around me.

"Hard to tell, but I think that boulder might have caused some internal bleeding," Gale answers. I hear him shuffle up from his position across from me. The tunnel is so silent that I can just barely hear his soft tread on the dirt.

Gale slides his body behind mine, gripping my waist with his arm as he settles in. His chest spreads warmth across my back. His presence brings a calming effect and I press myself more tightly into his embrace. I listen to him breathing as he quickly falls asleep, my ear serenaded by the rhythm of his soft snores.

* * *

><p>Hours pass and I still cannot drift into sleep. It evades me, pulling me to the brim and shaking me back to wakefulness. Artie is snoring loudly, the grizzly sound grates against my temples. <em>How does his wife share a bed with him at night?<em> Mortin's slumber is silent, except for a single moment when I think I hear him mumble something incoherent. At some point I finally melt into a dreamland, only to be woken by a clanging in the mine shaft. The noise startles Gale awake as well. He stiffens before he realizes where the sound is located. We both scramble up, nearly tripping over Mortin. Artie fumbles with a headlamp as Gale and I finally reach the metal grate of the mine shaft. Gale bangs the handle of his pickaxe against the grate noisily.

"Hello?" A voice yells in response. My heart beats furiously. _We've been rescued._ My mind is screaming with happiness. A wide smile spreads across Gale's face as he grips me to his side, hugging me tightly.

"We're on the level 6 tunnel," Gale yells to the unnamed individual, "We're Hank's remaining crew." There is a clanking noise again. Followed by a string of curse words from a second voice.

"We're level 7, there's only the two of us…managed to pry the lift open…now we're climbing up. The whole shaft's smashed." Gale and I stare at each other bewildered. Only two men left on their crew, that's worse than our tally. With Bristel's passing, we are down to five living crewmembers.

Artie and Mortin have joined us at the lift. Each of them hands us a lit hardhat. All four of us stare transfixed down into the shaft, shining our lights in the path of the newcomers. I bite my lip nervously as I pray that these survivors don't fall to their deaths. After a few tense moments a man's filthy hand grips the floor near the bottom of our grate. He hauls himself up, smiling at our disorientated faces.

"Let's get this grate open." Artie's firm demand is met by all of us. Mortin even helps, despite one of his arms being broken. With difficulty the grate finally budges, allowing the man to slip inside. He dangles an arm over the edge, hoisting the second miner up. The second man looks up into our faces after he catches his breath. Both Gale and I gasp.

"Thom!" Gale rushes forward gripping his friend in a hug. Thom laughs as he slaps Gale's back roughly. They give each other the once over.

"You look like hell," Gale laughs deeply as he assess his friend. Thom rolls his dark grey eyes. He has deep cuts on his face and neck. A decent amount of dried blood is caked to the side of his face from some type of head wound. He must have lost his hardhat during the collapse. It's firmly on his head now.

"You've looked better yourself," He returns jokingy as he regards Gale.

He glances around at the rest of us. When his eyes fall on me he smiles and nods in my direction. I return the gesture. When we were children he used to play in the meadow with the rest of us kids, but we were never close in any way. I never knew him well enough to say so. We were in the same year, but as we got older he was always hanging around with Gale, Bristel, and a few other boys at school. They were all part of the group that made girls swoon.

"And Bristel?" Thom asks hesitantly as he turns back toward Gale. Gale's eyes flicker toward the place where our men have been lined in a row.

"He passed only a few hours ago. Blood poisoning from being crushed," I murmur softly. Thom nods solemnly. After a few moments of silence he walks toward our fallen men. He kneels beside Bristel and lightly takes his friend's cold hand. Something possesses me to approach.

I stand at his side as I speak, "His passing was peaceful. I sang to him as I held him, as if he were simply going to sleep." Gale joins me. His warm hand envelopes mine as we watch Thom pay his respects to his childhood friend. Thom glances up at our entwined fingers, before his eyes float to my face. Something unidentifiable flickers through his expression before he smiles softly.

"He really loved it when you sang. Talked about it for hours at a time," Thom's voice sounds thoughtful as he reminds me of Bristel's feelings. Feelings that the man hid expertly under a mask of teasing friendship.

_Would things have been different, had I known he was serious about me?_ Bristel…the man who danced me into a stupor, protected me at the whipping, and comforted me when I decided to become a rebel. _Would I have easily loved him?_ Perhaps if there had been completely different circumstances I would have grown to love him more deeply than the kinship of crewmates. I wish I could take all my teasing back, _I should have been more grateful for the way he tried to protect me before. _

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: Thanks again for reading. The song used during this chapter is an old Hungarian Folk song. I'm not exactly sure who wrote it, but you can look it up online. There are several choral versions of it._**


	11. Chapter 11: Hope

**A/N:** **Hello everyone, I hope that this is worth the wait. I have chopped this chapter in half to end it on a higher note. Let me know what you think in a review and provide any suggestions you see fit! Thanks and happy reading!**

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><p>Half a day passes with the same monotonous darkness, totaling two days of silence and fear. We wait as long as we possibly can to eat small meals. All of us want to make the rations last as long as we can, especially since there are two extra mouths to feed; though that problem is worth the sacrifice. <em>Two more men who have been saved from depths of hell, this is a reason to be thankful<em>, I remind myself as my stomach aches for food and water.

Hunger is not a new thing to any of us, so we persevere. Two days is nothing like weeks, months, and years of starvation. Nor is two days like the feeling that a child must have during the Games, when the promise of their next meal never comes. I won't let myself belittle what others have felt.

When we need to relieve ourselves we walk deep into the tunnel. Every time we must cover the putrid smelling bodily waste with dirt and debris. I'm so dehydrated that I barely need to do so anyway. The one time that I ventured out, I made it quick because the fear in my chest from being alone was too great to bear. It seemed silly, but at the same time it wasn't. Nothing is silly anymore.

We pass the time resting and when we aren't resting we talk. None of us talk about how we may not make it out of this alive.

Instead, we fill the increasing voids with imagery of the district: the meadow at dusk, the stars over the mountains, the mockingjays in the trees, the children laughing, and our families. We don't make any more reassurances or promises we can't keep. _If the Capitol wanted us saved there would have been help by now_. _The lift's top would have been pried open long ago and all the available resources exhausted; no, we're in this alone now._

When no one speaks, we sit quietly breathing in coal dust and listening for life. We hear nothing. The absence of aid workers is not as chilling as the quiet presence of dead miners. There are levels of sprawling tunnels below and above us, yet no one makes their presence known. All I can assume is that nearly every tunnel has collapsed. Periodically, Artie will lean out the lift gate and yell for someone, anyone. There is never a response.

I feel myself fading in and out of half-asleep worlds with terrifying dreams. Sometimes I open my eyes and still see the visions blinding me in the darkness. Opening your eyes here does nothing to cease the images. I try to focus on remembering the outline of my father's face. For some reason, I can barely remember the last conversation I had with him. I tell myself over and over again that he knows I love him, because I can't remember if I said it when I saw him last. _I hope that I've said it enough._

I am in a period of wakefulness when I hear Harper stir for the first time. The occasion warrants the headlamps being turned on. We slip a bit of water past his lips when he finally opens his eyes. His dried lips greedily seep up the liquid. He seems very confused about his surroundings and the events that happened before the collapse. Artie tries to orient him "times three", something that older miners are trained to do in the case of brain injuries. _Do they know the person, place, and time?_ My father had told me once about it once. It helps you determine how functional the person is.

"Who am I?" Artie asks, as he looks sternly down into Harper's glazed eyes. Harper doesn't say anything for a beat. His open mouth forms around invisible silent sounds. It reminds me of the gaping mouth of a fish, bobbling open and shut.

"Artie," He finally says. Our unofficial leader nods. He grabs Harper's hand and squeezes it.

"Where are we?" He asks. Harper looks up at the ceiling with a furrowed brow. Immediately I realize that he is confused about how he got here, the look is very plainly written all over his face.

"We're in the mine. Why is it so dark?" Harper asks solemnly. Artie ignores the question and asks another.

"What day is it Harper?" Harper squints his eyes and furrows his brow further.

"I'm not sure. I don't remember…" he says softly after a minute has passed. Artie releases Harper's hand and pats his arm softly instead.

"It's alright kid. There was a collapse. A lot of people are hurt and you may have hit your head. We've been here a few days."

I stare into Gale's eyes. It's strange being able to see him. We haven't had the headlamps on all day. The darkness has been consuming us and the vision of his face is peculiar. With Harper awake, we have another mouth to feed. Maybe it will be easier to guide him out of this tunnel though, now that he is awake. Though I haven't seen him move much, a brian injury could have caused some damage to his nerves. I wonder if Gale is thinking about how the hell we will get Harper out of here on our own, _I sure as hell am. _

Artie directs us to observe Harper as he prepares smaller bites of food for the injured miner to consume. Harper doesn't seem hungry, which concerns me. _A man who has been asleep for nearly two days should be hungry. _For the several hours before we go to sleep I answer the questions that Harper asks into the darkness. I try to draw pretty pictures for him in his mind. I remind him that his wife is expecting a baby any day now and that she loves him. I tell him the things that none of us have said to each other. These are the things that we didn't allow ourselves to say today. Things like: _they are coming for us, everything will be fine, and when you wake up someone will be here to take you home_.

Harper deserves the reassurances to guide him through his confused state.

* * *

><p>Artie clears his throat as we finish up a small meal at the beginning of the third day, "I think we all know it is time to find our way out of this alone." He lets his solid gaze float between us for a moment.<p>

No one responds, so he continues, "I know more than anyone that abandoning the bodies of your crewmates is not something you want to do. We have to though; we'll never make it if we stay here with them." Leaving my men here makes my chest ache with fresh agony.

Earlier Thom's companion, Royal, suggested that we should venture out if we don't hear from any other survivors by the end of the day. His suggestion was met with dissension. With Gale's injured leg, Mortin's arm, and all of Harper's potential problems the prospect of moving them is daunting. Now that we've had several hours to mull it over, there are no verbal objections. We have no other choice. We are our each other's only hope.

We gather the remaining supplies and make our way toward the lift. The men discuss the best plan of action for escaping this silent grave. Climbing seems to be the only logical option, but three of our men can't manage that on their own. We have one rope, our pickaxes, and the pails of remaining food. Anchoring the rope could be dangerous, because the weight of a body may sever the rope on the metal casing of the gate.

We settle on the idea of making a pulley system of sorts using the pails. Somehow Gale is able to make an intricate sliding pattern with the empty pails we fetch for him. His system allows the rope to slip slowly through, rather than rubbing it harshly. Thom volunteers as the guinea pig for our first trial. Artie and Royal hold one end of the rope as Thom ties the other end around his waist and around his thighs. Royal and Artie loop their end of the rope around a rock to give themselves better leverage.

Meanwhile, I help Thom secure the rope as best I can. Gale watches us silently. We only have one headlamp going right now, the one I'm wearing. I needed it to watch my fingers work the knot around Thom's waist. When I'm done I pat his back once between his shoulders then he goes to stand by the entrance to the shaft. He turns toward us, gripping the rope in his hands. He slowly lets himself fall backwards to begin his descent. Royal and Artie gradually let out the slack of the rope, lowering Thom into the dark cavern below.

"Artie, why would we want to lower ourselves further, rather than climb up?" I ask quietly as Thom disappears.

"None of us are in good shape to climb. The shaft has steal frames holding it together. It may be smashed, but the basic frame is there. If they open the top of the lift, they'll see us waiting for them at the bottom of the frame," he explains through the soft grunts he makes from baring Thom's weight.

Next we lower Gale, then Harper. I follow suit, closing my eyes tightly as I am sent into the darkness below. When I reach the bottom Gale unties me and tugs on the rope. It is pulled up for Mortin to use next. I look around us. From what I can see above, the shaft has a lot of damage. The metal floor is also covered in gravel and larger rocks. Some of the metal beams of he frame above us look like they may buckle with the weight of the walls pressing into them. It makes me cringe just thinking about the forces of tons pressing down toward us.

"Do you think the walls we collapse in here too?" I ask Gale. He and Thom look up at the surroundings.

"We'll be fine," Gale says. He pats my shoulder softly. It doesn't feel like a truthful reassurance. Harper is lying with his eyes closed and his head resting on a boulder. The rest of us stand in in the bottom of the shaft and watch Mortin's feet lowering toward us.

"Fuck," we hear him hiss. Mortin's good arm has lost grip on the rope and he wobbles back against the wall of the shaft, slamming his shoulder and broken arm into the jagged wall. A cry of pain reverberates through the massive cavern above us.

"You okay Mort?" Gale yells up. A muffled moan returns as Mortin is lowered closer to us.

"You're alive, that's better than nothing," Gale replies. Several more minutes pass. Finally, Mortin's feet touch the rough gravel of the lift's floor. Thom helps him remove the rope and tugs on it to let Artie know that it can be pulled up.

Mortin cradles his bad arm. I can see that tears have been streaming down his face. I walk closer and gingerly press my hands against the bulbous purple flesh. Mortin winces slightly at the examination.

"I should have known this would happen, given my luck," Mortin grinds out bitterly. I'm not the luckiest person either, but I'm not going to put blames on things.

"Nothing ever goes the way I think it will," Mortin kicks a clump of dirt as he laughs harshly.

Gale rolls his eyes, "You think you are safer than any of the rest of us when it comes to a collapse? No one's invisible." Mortin glares at Gale. He turns away, looking at the surroundings instead of beginning an argument with Gale. I'm glad he doesn't take the bait. He's showing all sorts of gumption these past few days.

"If it had gone the way I'd planned you sure wouldn't be here," Mortin whispers to himself as he begins gingerly walking toward the other side of the cavern. I'm about to ignore him and turn back to Royal above us, but something about that statement catches a buzz in my head. _The way he planned?_

"What do you mean Mortin? What are you talking about?" My voice comes out in a bloated hiss. It explodes from within me, like a harsh whisper. Mortin swivels toward me, looking directly into my confused eyes. For all his bitter cruelty toward me, Mortin's face collapses in a pain so unlike his snide sneers that it jolts my heart. Gone is the placid, but strained expression he has been carrying since the collapse, in its place is a face riddled with sadness and regret.

"I knew that they were planning to destroy the rebellious miners," Mortin sucks in a shuttering breath as he presses his dirt and coal covered palms against his head.

"I thought it wouldn't happen this way, I didn't think that everyone else would be harmed," his voice is crackling, jagged like his expression, "Just those who were part of it. Just those few."

I hear Gale's furious exhale beside me, but my ears are clogged. _He knew the Capitol was watching us and he didn't do anything about it. He knew they wanted us dead, and he was content with that?_

Suddenly I am furious and I lunge forward and grip his tattered mine shirt in my fists. I slam his shoulders against the rough dirt wall of the cavern, just to the left of one of the large steal beams. His head lulls back as his strange colored eyes meet mine. He winces as I press myself up against him.

"Tell me everything or so help me I will smash your head into this wall until you can't remember your own name," I slam his head back for good measure as I bark my request. Mortin's eyes are glassy and tired. His mouth hangs open slightly as he looks into my face, but there are no words. No explanations of what he is implying.

"How could you think the Capitol would protect you or anyone else that got in their way?" I scream in his face when he doesn't say anything.

"How could you?!" I'm ripped away from Mortin by strong arms. I think they are trying to prevent me from killing him, but instead they shove me aside. I focus my vision on the person. It's Gale, he hauls his right fist back and punches Mortin roughly in the face several times. Mortin falls to the ground against the wall. Then Thom stops it by pulling Gale off our crewmate, by saving the traitor who has killed our friends.

Mortin pulls himself up into a sitting position. Then he tries to sop of the blood that is sprouting from his nose. He presses his dirty sleeve into it, but it just keeps spouting thick crimson. At some point Royal must have joined us. I hear him rustling as he unties himself from the rope behind me. He demands an explanation that I can't give. I have no response, just a blank stare.

We all watch Mortin in silence with the new knowledge of what may have occurred here. _The explosion was most likely meant to destroy all of us, but something went wrong_. We are still alive and I know they didn't intend for that to happen. _Is anyone looking for us? Does anyone know that we are still down here?_ I'm already losing the grip I have on my anxiety. _What if they never try to find survivors?_

My breathing is ragged. I try to contain it, but Gale must notice. I feel his palm hit my forearm in the darkness, searching out my hand. He finds my balled fist in my lap and unwinds the fingers to lace his own hand with mine. There is a light squeeze from his fingers before he begins smoothing his thumb across the back of my hand. His fingers feel sticky with what must be Mortin's blood.

It takes several minutes for my breathing to calm. I can't bring myself to voice my concerns, yet somehow I know that every man here is thinking the things that I am.

Mortin glares at the floor in front of him for several minutes until Artie finally joins us. When the traitor begins to speak we all watch him soundlessly, our hearts full of bitterness.

"My mother told me years ago that my father was a peacekeeper. It took me a while to realize that it was Cray. I was angry with her for months," Mortin's eyes are glassier now than ever before, the strange color of them now readily apparent.

"I used to plan ways to kill Cray, or get him in trouble for having women sell themselves," Mortin laughs harshly. We all know that getting a peacekeeper in trouble would never go well.

"I never had the leverage to get him out of here," Mortin looks up.

He looks directly at me, "- Until one day I realized that I did have something the Capitol wanted…a list, of rebels and their sympathizers." _He sold us out to seek his own revenge_. I turn my back on him and press my fist against my chest. I can't look at this man. I will not look at him.

"In exchange for Cray's death I provided the Capitol with the names. I was told that I would be awarded," he closes his eyes and presses his head against the wall.

"I never meant for anyone else to get hurt, just those few people," Mortin whispers.

Everyone is silent afterwards. Several of us walk away to separate ends of the lift's shaft. We need to be alone, to reflect, to try and heal enough to get out of this alive.

* * *

><p>After hours of sitting in our new location that is no different from the last, we begin to argue. It hurts my head and my heart.<p>

Royal is angry that we haven't tried to find a new way out. After a few shouting matches between him and Gale a consensus is reached. It is Thom volunteers to begin climbing the wall to try and reach the top of the lift. He is trying to determine the best way to climb. He turns to Gale for an opinion, but quickly he is cut short when a great shattering noise resounds through the cavern above us.

It sounds like the top of the lift is being shredded. I stare up into the darkness there is something at the edge of my vision. A bright golden flash that flickers on and off, it builds something in my aching body. It takes me a moment to realize that it's the feeling of _hope_. Hope, the feeling that we will be rescued and it is such a glorious feeling that I collapse against Gale's side. He grips my shoulders tightly as the buzzing sound continues. The flashes must be sparks from whatever is cutting the metal. As the sound continues a vision of beauty begins to meet our eyes, light.

Magnificent beautiful faint white light begins to spread through the hole. Both Gale and I begin shaking in tandem, our bodies reaching a silent harmony of elation, exhaustion, and wonder. He is gripping my shoulder so intensely that his fingers are digging into my tender flesh in a painful manner. I whisper his name and he comes back to himself. He must realize that he is gripping me too tightly, because his fingers loosen their pressure.

As the last piece of the opening is cut a hardhat's blaring light shines down into the shaft. I shield my sensitive eyes with my hand. We are so far down; it's hard to tell whether the man can see us. He must though, because he begins shouting behind him for more help. From within the shaft it is hard to hear what he is saying, but his urgency is palpable.

After several minutes there are multiple heads looking down into the shaft, they fumble with something that I can't quite make out. There is a clank as something hits against the metal of the lift's top. Then, the sounds of something slithering through the darkness. It drops before us, dangling in the air. A thick rope knotted through the middle of a wooden board. It looks like one of the swings that the children have strung up in the old trees at the edge of the meadow. Artie grips the thick rope in his palm to stop it swinging. We all stare at it in silence, then Artie hands the rope to me.

The wooden board clanks against my thighs as he says, "Ladies first."

I feel my limbs shaking as Gale and Artie steady the board so that I can climb on. I step over it and sit on the flat surface with the rope straddled between my legs. Gale pats my back softly as Artie shouts up at our rescuers. I survey the men around me as I slowly begin to shakily rise above them. As I pass their heads Gale tries to give me a reassuring smile, but his expression is still frightened.

I grip the rope tightly in my stiff hands, my knuckles turning white. The rope swings constantly as I am pulled upward. Sometimes I come close to hitting one of the shaft walls, but mostly I sway in circles in the middle of the shaft. As I pass the destroyed tunnels I try not to look. Each one is like a punch in the gut. At level 3 I see a person's palm pressed through the metal grate. I close my eyes tightly and press my face against the rope. The voices above me are becoming more clear the higher I rise. When I am so close that they can reach their hands down and touch my hardhat and shoulders I begin to shake vigorously.

Many hands pull at me as the rope raises my face through the metal opening. As my shoulders are birthed through the belly of the mangled metal beast I am met with an onslaught of sounds. Hundreds of voices shouting into the night rise like the swell of a great song. The bright white lights used during knight shifts blare at me, blinding me temporarily.

My chest hurts and I heave forward as I am pulled completely from the hole. Like a fish out of water, I am gasping in gulps of the clear aboveground air. It fills my aching lungs and makes my chest heave. Immediately I am pulled toward a medical tent that is set up nearby. The crowd surges forward against the blockade of ropes and peacekeepers. My mind is clogged with all of the stimulation of my surroundings. Voices, lights, hands, smoke, coal dust and tears. _Am I crying?_ I press a shaking hand against my cheeks and feel moisture.

"Where are you hurt?" Someone asks me urgently.

I blink into the blue eyes of the merchant doctor, Morrison. His brow is furrowed as someone else begins pulling at my bloodied and tattered clothing. I choke on my own sobs for a moment, before I get control.

"My back, it aches badly and just some cuts and bruises," I gasp out the words as they begin pulling off the dirtied clothing and closing a white curtain on the tent to shield me from the crowd.

A woman comes forward and I recognize her as the Forman's secretary. I reach my hand to her, for some reason, wanting the contact of a familiar body. She grips my palm tightly, her eyes glistening as she searches my face. She will ask me my name, though she knows who I am. I can tell my the look of recognition that slides across her worried features. She'll follow procedure after I confirm who I am. She'll go to the chalkboard and cross my name off with a blue line.

"Your name miner?" She asks, her voice shaking slightly. I feel the tears sliding down my face again. I squeeze her hand as hard as I can.

"Sidney Ione Elmwood, Level 6, Hank Logan's crew," my voice shakes.

"How many have survived?" I ask her. She looks up at the doctor and his assistants, who are examining my wounds and beginning to cleanse my coal covered body. She bites her lip and looks back at me.

"You're the first one," she breathes. I close my eyes against her words. _That can't be. No, just no please. _My mind tries to wrap around this new knowledge.

"How many others are down there?" Dr. Morrison asks me gently, but urgently.

"Six more men," I grit out, "Four from Hank Logan's crew, two from level 7". I open my eyes and see the sad expressions around me.

I quickly relay who the survivors are and confirm that the rest of my crew has perished. The doctor asks me about the injuries he will be treating. A second assistant rushes around to prepare materials for the men. I can hear people crying in the crowd as another person is pulled through the lift's jagged opening. They all must be so relieved to see the first survivors after what I estimate has been possibly three going on four days.

The secretary pats my leg, and then she squeezes my hand back before she rushes from the tent. I hear the crowd hush as she runs out and her clear crisp voice rising above the silence.

"7 survivors!" She shouts. A cheer resonates through the crowd, followed by silence and I imagine she must approach the blackboard at this moment to cross my name off.

"The first survivor is Sidney Ione Elmwood, Level 6, minimal injuries," I hear her announce. There are gasps and yells of happiness, and then she lists the remaining survivors as I imagine she crosses their names off the list. More emotional yells echo through the area.

I smile in relief when I hear Gale's name shatter the air, "Gale Atticus Hawthorne, Level 6, moderate injuries." His mother's voice rises to a heavenly level as she rejoices.

The doctor has me turn onto my stomach so he can examine my back. I close my eyes and press my forehead into the cold surface of the table. One assistant is running a cold cloth across my dirty skin, cleaning my injuries. There is a shuffle behind the curtain and I look up to see Gale and Mortin coming around the side. They are ushered toward waiting tables. Gale groans as they press his broken limbs, while they examine his injuries. The makeshift splint we tried to make for him looks ridiculous to me now.

I wish I knew the secretary's name, I can't remember what it is. I hear the silence of the crowd once more and the secretary's voice quavers, "There are 5 confirmed dead at the moment." The crowd grows eerily hushed. She lists my men and I picture the red circles she draws around their names. Normally, the person crossing and circling would not announce the names, but this woman is determined to do so. As she says each one, she pauses to let the family soak the name in. I hear people beginning to cry and I lose it once more. I let my body shake with the loud tears. The doctor's golden haired assistant presses her cold palm into my shoulder and tries to sooth my onslaught of emotion.

Through my tears I look across at Gale. I see that he is crying visibly too. His silver eyes are bright, but very sad. Artie comes around the tent and takes in our shaken appearances. He releases a deep breath. He nods at our tears and closes his eyes.

"Don't forget them," he says; his voice soft as he turns toward his designated table.

The solemn moment is broken when voices burst through the other side of our shelter. It's the Hawthorne children, crying happy tears of cathartic joy. Their beautiful faces seem to purify all of the terrible visions that my mind refuses to lose.

I watch as Posy throws herself against Gale's legs, first. He releases a slight shout of pain as she presses into his injured leg. Rory and Vick both hug their brother tightly from opposing sides, forcing him to grab each in a shaking arm. Gale is crying profusely now. I haven't seen this side of him since we were children. This pure elation is unlike anything I have witnessed.

Hazelle approaches slowly, her face blotchy with tears. I haven't seen her cry in years. She's too strong for that, but here she is in full force. She presses both of her hands to Gale's cheeks and kisses his face repeatedly, murmuring assurances to him. It takes me a moment to realize I am crying again. The sob that wrenches through me alerts Hazelle to my presence as well. She trips over Posy as she approaches my tabletop. She presses her hands into my shoulders, pulling me to her chest so that she can kiss my face.

"Beautiful girl, oh darling I knew you were strong enough to get them out," she says into my mangled hair. I grip her shoulders as I sob against her soft, warm body. Over her shoulder I see my father finally stumble through the white barrier. His eyes settle on me in an instant. When he reaches me, Hazelle slips away and my father's sturdy body fills the space that she vacates.

"I never lost hope, I knew you would come back," my father runs his shaking palms over me as he whispers to me. I am almost delirious with happiness form seeing his face. It seems like I arrived at this moment in a blur of action. The scenes clog my brain as I fight to keep my eyes on my father's smiling face.

"I love you," I choke out. It's the only thing I have to say.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing. Sorry that this update came a week later than I predicted. There were some unexpected life occurrences! Thanks again and let me know if you have any suggestions.**


	12. Chapter 12: Quarter Quell

**A/N: It has been ages since this story had an update and I have been furiously writing this chapter over and over again. It by no means meets the expectations in my head, but I am satisfied enough to share it with you. I was originally going to have a very important plot point set up before the Quell announcement, but things worked a little better this way. Thank you to those of you who have kept this story in mind and asked me about it. I appreciate your support. Thanks for reading everyone, and enjoy.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday, March 30<strong>__**th**_

When I enter the room and see the steam drifting off the water in the tub I feel guiltier than I ever have in my entire life. The idea of using so much hot water makes me dizzy. It's ludicrous. In the Seam hot water is a luxury that not many have, including me. Hazelle must have warmed buckets of water by the fire and carried them to fill the bath for me.

I shudder as I slip my father's mine shirt over my head. My entire body hasn't stopped shaking since we were released to go to our homes. I remove my undergarments, fold my clothing and place it on the counter next to a cup full of toothbrushes. The dirty clothing looks out of place in Hazelle's pristine washroom. Many garments dirtied from the mines have probably been laid here, _but how many of them have been covered in blood?_ I have to close my eyes and turn away from the path my thoughts want to take.

The hot bath looks inviting enough, but I hesitate. I have never had a warm bath before. Kneeling next to it, I dip the fingers of my left hand into the water. As my hand swirls the depths, steam rises like fog. The water feels unbelievably warm around my aching fingers. I stand back and catch a glimpse of my reflections in the cracked mirror over the sink. It is the same sallow face that had greeted me in the mirror before I took my father's place in the mines. I stare at my naked body. Where my clothing covered my body I look almost comically clean compared to my arms, neck, and face. The parts of me that were bare to the world are under a layer of coal dust, dirt, and encased in blood.

Doctor Morrison and his assistant had cleaned only the cuts on my hands and forearms in their haste to deal with the more pressing injuries of my crewmates. There are streaks of white where they wiped the grime away from my cuts before applying anti-bacterial creams. My back, though extremely painful, was deemed to only have a significant strain. I escaped without a single broken bone. I was "lucky" they had said; _I still don't feel that way._ "Be grateful you didn't burn to death or suffocate," one of the assistants had said as he explained what had happened to cause this tragedy.

As my crewmates were attended to I was told what exactly had transpired below the earth two days ago. There was a series of explosions in the other shaft that were so powerful they eventually caused an intense collapse to occur in our shaft. The fire is still burning and if there are survivors, they will likely be dead by the time it will be safe enough to retrieve them. In our shaft they have sent rescue teams down into the mine to look for trapped miners. Since there are no known noxious fumes and that portion of the mine is fire free they have deemed it safe enough to attempt a search and rescue.

After Gale and I were given the go ahead to be released from the medical tent we were ushered home by our families. Gale's injuries were more extensive than he had let on. He had suffered a minor concussion and seriously pulled the muscles in his arm. His leg had suffered a hairline fracture to the shin. He had endured walking on it and using it for the past two days as if it was merely a strain. Perhaps it was his stubborn will to be strong that kept him from voicing his pain. Meanwhile, with few true injuries I am feeling empty and useless like all the bones in my body have been broken.

I turn away from the haunted face in the mirror and tenderly step into the tub of steaming water. It burns my shaking limbs as I lower myself further into the basin. My entire body tingles from the intense heat of the water, but the sensation on my aching muscles makes me release a quiet moan nonetheless. I watch my skin rapidly turn a vibrant red and feel a sweat break across my face, neck, and shoulders. A gentle knock on the door startles me from my dazed examination of my heated skin.

"Yes?" My voice is timid as I answer the knock. The door opens with a click and I stare up at the intruder.

Hazelle's face peers at me as she presses the door to her shoulder. She smiles softly and says, "Do you need any help dear?"

I swallow the hard lump in my throat and nod softly, unsure how I will make my quaking limbs accomplish anything. Hazelle cracks the door open enough to slip in. I hear Posy whispering something behind her, demanding to follow her mother.

Hazelle shoves her daughter back into the other room, "Posy, you can help me later. Right now I need to talk to Sidney alone." I can tell that Posy wants to protest, but a stern look from her mother causes her to stomp off. I hear the front door shut loudly soon after. It makes me realize that the quiet voices of my father and the boys have disappeared from the living area.

Now it is far too quiet for me to keep my thoughts from wondering. Hazelle closes the door behind her I cannot contain the tears any longer. They bubble up from inside me. My throat feels tight. When I go to swipe the tears away from my eyes, my hands are shaking too much to do any good. I let out a mangled sob and force my palms back under the warm water. Hazelle kneels beside me and rolls her sleeves up past her elbows. She makes soft shushing sounds through her teeth as she wipes the tears from my cheeks with her thumbs. Her hands feel rough and warm. I am blinded by my tears and my chest is rattling so hard with the sobs that I feel like I am gasping for air. I try to hug my knees without sloshing the water over the rim of the bath.

Hazelle's voice is soft and motherly as she pulls my long damp hair from my shoulders, "I know darling, I know. Shhhh, everything will be alright now. You're safe here."

She picks up a large yellow sponge from the edge of the bath. I watch as she lathers soap into the sponge before she pulls my right arm from the water and glides the sponge across the raw skin. The dirt slides down my arm in soapy rivulets. Neither of us talks about what happened in the mines. Hazelle whispers soothing things as my body relaxes. I close my eyes and listen to the rhythms of her voice. The cadence of it is almost melodic. I'm reminded of the night that she cared for me when my mother died. _I was so young then_, it feels like a lifetime ago.

Hazelle glides the sponge across the expanse of my back and I sigh softly. _This is nice_, to be cared for this way is a gift that I have not earned, but Hazelle willingly treats me as one of her own. _I should feel useless_, _I'm a grown woman and I'm unable to do these simple tasks_. Then I remember why my heart aches. The fear and sorrow in my core reminds me. _Something terrible happened to me. It happened to my friends. It happened to my district_. I may need people to keep me grounded in my own body; otherwise I fear I will just drift away.

I try to focus on my life before this event, my life before the mines. I go as far back as the time when my mother was still alive. I think about her gentle voice and her soothing songs. I think about how mother used to help me bathe when I was a child. The water was cooler then, but the sensation of being cared for was the same. I clear my throat as Hazelle glides the sponge up over my shoulder, "Thank you, for bringing me here and helping me." Hazelle just nods in response.

She begins to coax shampoo through my hair. Her fingertips massage my scalp in rigid circles. I feel tingles shoot across my face as I relax. I lean back until only my face peeks out of the water and allow her to rinse the shampoo from my hair. My heart feels heavy, but my body is less tense at least. Hazelle hums as she works at the grime. Finally she pats my head and presses a soft kiss into my temple, "All done dear, let's get you warmed up and dressed like new again."

Hazelle stands to retrieve a large fluffy towel with fraying ends, "Up you go, careful now." Hazelle grips my hand as I step out of the basin. She shakes the towel out and holds it before her. As my left foot leaves the water I realize just how cold the air is. _How long was I in the bath?_ The water feels much colder, but still holds its warmth. I look down at the murky liquid and shiver in the cool room. Hazelle wraps the towel around me and smiles before she leads me out, one hand on my shoulder with her arm wrapped around my back to guide me.

"Your father went to get you some clothing. It should be set out on the bed," she says as we go to enter the bedroom.

Hazelle and I both stop short when we set eyes on Gale, shocked by his sudden presence. His long legs are spread across the closest mattress, where I'm assuming he dropped his tired body as soon as he entered the bedroom. He looks exhausted and filthy. His left arm is draped over his face and I can hear the heavy breathing of sleep. It is strange to see his injured leg swathed in a brace. Hazelle frowns at him, but pulls me toward the remaining bed to help me sit. I keep the towel wrapped firmly around myself, watching as she approaches her sleeping son.

At first I think that she will reprimand him for covering the bedclothes in grime, but she spreads her hand softly across his arm. She pulls it gently away from his face, murmuring his name. "Gale, wake up honey," she says delicately as she runs her fingers along her son's forehead. His glazed eyes open after a moment and his body startles, rigid for a second, before he realizes he is home. _I know exactly where he likely thought he was_, I think grimly.

"What –", he begins as he sits up, but he stops when he sees me still covered in a towel. He averts his eyes and attempts to stand quickly, which leads to him swaying into his mother. She huffs as she catches him against her shoulder.

"You must have fallen asleep. Come on, I'll help you get to the washroom," she grabs onto his arm as she leads him out the door. "There is still warm water from Sidney's bath, put it to good use," she says as she shuts the door behind them.

I sit for a minute staring at the door before I come to my senses. I dry myself completely before slipping into the undergarments that have been placed on the bed. Father must have set the clothing out while I was in the bath. I slip the sweater and pants on and sit back on the mattress, waiting to see if Hazelle will return. She does, smiling as she enters again.

"Let me help you manage your hair," she offers as she holds up a brown hair-brush.

"Thank you again," I say, attempting a smile that ends up feeling far more like a frown. Hazelle dries my hair with the towel. Then she methodically runs the brush through my tangled hair, murmuring regrets every time she pulls my scalp too roughly. I assure her the pain is nothing. After a few moments she opens the window and yells out for Posy.

When the little girl appears she is all smiles and sunshine. I can't help the warm smile that grows across my own face. This time it feels genuine. There are grass stains on the front of her pale blue dress where she has pressed her little knees into the dirt. A small bouquet of weeds and daisies dangles in her left hand as she looks at me excitedly.

"Miss Sidney, these are for you." I smile as I take them from her hands. I'll give the kid credit; she doesn't really know that they are mostly weeds. I murmur a soft thank you as she climbs onto the bed beside me. She chats about where she found the flowers as her mother nimbly plaits my hair. Hazelle finishes soon enough and pats my shoulder as she rises to get some clean clothing for Gale out of the chest of drawers beside the bed.

"Miss Sidney, let's go play paper dolls!" Posy jumps off the bed excitedly. I have to clear my throat before I tell her, "That sounds like fun." She beams at me brightly and takes my hand to lead me into the living area. We sit down on the rug in front of the fireplace. Hazelle knocks on the washroom door to hand Gale his clothing. Then she busies herself making dinner. I should head home soon and check on father. I don't want to burden the Hawthorne's by eating a share of their dinner meal.

"You can have this doll, her name is Mabel," Posy hands me a paper doll with long black hair and green eyes. She lays out a pair of dolls with red curls and a folder full of paper clothing. It is likely that someone in the family designed everything for her. I wonder who it is, but don't have much background knowledge about the Hawthorne's hobbies.

"It's summer where Mabel lives right now," Posy informs me as she lays out an array of clothing for warmer weather. My brain fumbles with the idea of playing with this little girl who doesn't understand what I have been through in the past few days. She looks so excited to have someone join her game; it makes my eyes fill with tears. I shake my head and look at the paper clothing she has provided me with.

"Is it sunny or rainy today at Mabel's house?" I ask as I consider dressing the doll in a yellow rain-coat or a billowy orange dress. Posy leans back on her heals and bites her lip as she thinks about the answer.

"It's sunny!" She finally decides. I place the orange dress over the doll and fold back the paper corners before I choose a pair of white sandals for Mabel's feet. I've never owned a pair of shoes like these. Perhaps a girl in District 4 or the Capitol would own such an impractical pair of shoes; they would only fill with coal dust in our district.

Posy dresses her doll and stands her up at the edge of the rug. "Bernadette loves to take walks," Posy states as she prances her doll around. "Come on Mabel, let's go for a walk in the meadow," Posy's voice becomes high pitched. She leans her doll toward mine as she continues to describe the flowers and trees they see in the meadow.

The washroom door creaks open, revealing a renewed Gale. His face is shaven and his damp hair looks less disheveled. I let my eyes run over him, but get caught up on the strange brace that Doctor Morrison provided him with. It could be some form of Capitol medical equipment, which likely makes Gale cringe more than it does me. Gale walks towards us, limping in a way that I hadn't noticed in the mines. He kneels down beside his sister, shifting his braced leg out straight as he sits, "What are you girls up to?" His eyes look sad, but he uses a soothing voice that I know is usually reserved for Posy.

Posy leans into her brother's side as she happily announces the game, "We're playing paper dolls. It's summer in Meadowville. The girls are all ready to have an adventure." It sounds as though this make-believe place has had many an adventure already.

Gale lifts a large hand to the crown of Posy's head and leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek. "I missed you Pose-nose," He says softly as he pulls away, rubbing his palm down her back. "This looks like a fun game," he tells her.

Posy smiles up at him and jumps Bernadette up onto his lap using her squeaky voice to request that he join our game, "Come walk with us in the meadow. We can have an adventure picnic!" Gale closes his eyes for a moment and smiles widely before he presses a kiss to the top of his sister's head. He picks up the remaining doll and quickly dresses her in some paper clothing. His large fingers maneuver the little paper tabs with ease. _He has practice_, I assume.

He wiggles the doll in a walk across the rug, using his own high-pitched voice to say, "I love picnics. I brought jam sandwiches. Let's set up our picnic basket. Then we can go hunting." Gale and Posy carry on with their game, setting up the perfect adventure for the paper dolls. Posy's doll is by far more interested in flowers and bugs, while Gale's keeps insisting that a summer day is a good day for a hunt.

I hear Hazelle let out a contented laugh behind us. I find myself smiling as Gale continues to play along with his sister. _He must do this often_; he seems to know all the things Posy's dolls love to do. He is just as caring as he was when we were children, but now he's the man that Posy looks to as a father. I find myself longing for something suddenly and I'm not certain what exactly it is, but I can't tear my eyes away from the way that Gale lovingly watches his sister's animated acting.

He looks up at me as Posy decides that everyone needs a wardrobe change. The girls will be going rabbit hunting. A look of concern flashes through Gale's eyes before he reaches over to squeeze one of the hands in my lap. He pulls my hand to rest on his good knee, enveloping my smaller hand in his warmer one. I look down and see that I'm holding Mabel limply in the other hand, having completely forgotten that I am supposed to be an active participant in this adventure. She is still wearing her orange dress and sandals, that won't do for hunting.

"You alright?" Gale asks. His voice is so quiet that Posy keeps up with whatever it was she was explaining about the new clothing. I open my mouth, but no words come out. Gale's thumb runs over the back of my hand encouragingly.

A loud bang makes us both jump unexpectedly as the front door slams against the wall. It announces the return of Rory and Vick with my father and Katniss trailing close behind them. It's an odd visual to have that particular group of people together. Vick mumbles a 'sorry'; gently closing the door as his mother sternly looks at him. Gale tears his eyes away from me. Katniss' face is flushed and she quickly looks away from our clasped hands. It is my father who seems to be staring at our joined hands with strong curiosity. Gale squeezes my fingers once more before he lets go.

"There's news from the mines," my father says after he releases a brash cough. I furrow my eyebrows when I hear the chesty sound of it rattling through him. It sounds worse than ever before. Rory looks concerned as my father doubles over for a moment to cough once more.

"Survivors?" Gale asks, quickly standing. My father nods as I too rise to hear the update.

"4 severely injured, 3 moderates, and 2 minimally injured. They found them behind a collapsed tunnel entrance. Two crews," my father explains as Hazelle brings him a glass of water. He nods at her gratefully as he takes the glass and gulps it down in a few swallows. Each crew should have 10 men, so that means that there were casualties on both crews. I shudder as I think about the dangling hand that I passed as I was pulled up through the mine shaft.

"Now they are saying that some people may be making their way through an old set of tunnels and will hopefully be found soon. No one was in the two top level tunnels," Rory adds as my father composes himself after another round of coughing.

"Good, I was hoping someone had a chance to get out through cross-tunnels," Gale says as he crosses his arms and leans against the wall beside the fireplace. He puts more weight on the good leg. Katniss is watching him warily, her eyes focusing for a long while on his leg brace.

"We should go back to the mine and wait to hear more, we shouldn't have left," Gale says. I know he's addressing me with this statement, but his eyes swivel to Katniss who has a pained expression on her face.

"You need rest," Hazelle protests as she sets a bowl filled with tesserae bread on the table. Rory steps over to help her pull out place settings for dinner.

"When dinner is done Rory and I will go back and help. You just stay here, outta trouble," Hazelle says punctuating her opinion with a pointed look at her eldest son.

Her eyes fall on Posy, Gale's weak spot. I don't think Hazelle has ever had much power over when her son comes and goes in this house, but what little power she does have over him is a weapon wielded in the form of her youngest child. The little girl in question looks up at her brother then with wide eyes as she says, "After dinner you're going to play with me again right?" Gale sighs and nods his head.

I see Katniss wringing her hands out of the corner of my eye. She turns to Gale as she speaks, "I just wanted to come check on you. I'm sorry I couldn't be there when you got out. Something came up." Gale nods his understanding.

"It's fine Catnip, you're here now," he appraises her for a moment then adds, "Everything alright? You seem a little off." Katniss looks around at everyone. She has always been a little socially awkward, but something seems to really be under her skin. She glances at each person present as if wary of them. Rory and Vick are working on setting the table as Hazelle stirs a pot on the stove. My father lowers himself onto the couch, watching the victor with interest.

"I heard about your crewmate, Mortin. What he did…" Katniss trails off for a second. She glances around again and I get the impression she has information she doesn't want to discuss with everyone in the room. Gale must sense that too because he pushes off from the wall and nods his head toward the porch.

"Yeah, how about we talk about him outside," Gale suggests. He hobbles after Katniss as she steps over to open the front door. She passes through before Gale who glances back over his shoulder, holding the door open as he looks at me expectantly.

"You coming?" he asks. I glance at my father for a second and he nods for me to go ahead. I squeeze his shoulder as I walk past. My father deserves some time spent with me, but I want to know what Katniss heard about Mortin. I don't bother to put my boots on as we go out onto the wooden porch.

Katniss leans against the far railing, looking across the street at my house. It is colder outside than I thought it was and I wrap my arms closely around my body as I rest against the adjacent railing. Gale leans against the house as Katniss turns toward him. She sighs and tilts her head as she looks at him. _She must be so relieved to see him_. She understands what it is like to truly lose someone to the mine.

"So, what's this about Catnip?" Gale hedges. The knuckles of his left hand tap against the side of the house as he waits for her response. Our emotions have been jerked around so much over the past several days that he likely just wants straight forward information.

Katniss schools her expression, presenting a solemn face as she explains herself, "Turns out Mortin provided a list of rebels to the Capitol," she has a slight fire in her eyes, "And you're both on it." Gale nods. I grip my arms around myself a little tighter. Goosebumps spread across my arms and they are definitely not forming because of the cold air.

"I figured as much, he told us that he did it," Gale sighs heavily, "He had a vendetta against Cray. He was Cray's bastard son and he figured selling something that the Capitol wanted would get him revenge." Katniss' eyes widen for a moment before she nods at this.

"Jack-ass got what he deserved if you ask me," Gale bites out, "The Capitol was going to exterminate him with the rest of us vermin." I'm bitter against Mortin, but I would never wish that kind of death on him. _I would never wish that death on anyone._ The thought reminds me of when it had occurred to me in the mineshaft.

"I wasn't at the mines waiting for you because I was receiving a private visitor," Katniss lowers her eyes to the railing where her hand is suddenly gripping it tightly.

"He threatened you again. Said you were lucky that he didn't blow up your shaft. He was targeting Laurel though, apparently he directly targeted her in the first explosion," Katniss' voice sounds like it has an edge of venom in it. The person she is referring to is someone that she might actually hate.

It doesn't take two guesses for me to figure out who her visitor was. There is only one man in all of Panem who could execute a mass-killing so seamlessly. I wonder how many times he has come here to threaten Katniss and Peeta, holding their loved ones over their heads as leverage. The thought makes me shudder.

"We survived," I say bringing Katniss gaze toward me, "What will happen to us now?" I try to keep the quiver out of my voice. Katniss shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders helplessly, admitting that she has no idea.

"Right now it's all a game to him. He finds it all amusing. He could kill you so many ways there would be no point in trying to anticipate a place or time. In fact, if he ends up finding proof that you both really were part of the rebellion he will probably kill you publicly," Katniss wages. Gale and I exchange a glance. My stomach begins to churn with fear. _What will happen to my father if I am truly tried as one of Panem's traitors?_ Gale's expression seems to mirror my thoughts. I see a glimpse of regret and fear flash through his eyes as he most likely thinks of his family.

"In fact, it will likely be nationally broadcast. He mentioned that he _adored_ your love story during the broadcast of mine and Peeta's district celebration, which means that the Capitol citizens or maybe some of the other districts found favor in you. He doesn't like people who hold the citizens' favor. He doesn't like blatant acts of rebellion either." She folds her arms over her stomach. It must be that she saw my performance at the Harvest Festival after all and maybe the dancing too.

"If only I had not sang that song," I muse as I think about my first act of rebellion. Katniss actually smiles at me in that moment. She shakes her head and bites out a bitter laugh.

"If only we had eaten those berries…" she lets the sentence die off and releases another bitter laugh, "Peeta doesn't like when I say that," she adds.

She looks as though she is about to say something else, but Vick bursts through the door, "Come quick! It's a Capitol broadcast. They're announcing the Quarter Quell early." He hurries back inside, leaving the door wide open.

Gale and Katniss exchange a heated look as we rush back into the house. The timing of this doesn't bode well. If the president visited Katniss only mere hours ago, then he knew before he came here that this would happen. Or maybe he decided it after he left. Either way, it adds a new level of fear to the emotions bubbling in my stomach.

The boys are squeezed onto the couch beside my father and Hazelle has her hand on Rory's shoulder as she stands behind it. The television in the corner of the room is on; a man in a garish outfit is standing beside President Snow. He is holding a large envelope with the Capitol seal glittering on the front. There are people cheering in the background, but the camera remains focused on the pair of men. Posy is staring up at the strangely dressed man with a look of confusion on her face, her dolls lay forgotten on the floor.

Gale hobbles over to perch himself on the armrest of the couch. Katniss and I stand side by side at his left. She is shaking her head back and forth slowly, as the garishly dressed man mentions how exciting it is to receive a surprise Quarter Quell announcement. The President smiles widely as he takes the envelope from the man. He slits it open with one finger and glances at the words, certainly for effect. We all know that he already has knowledge of what the envelope says, even though we are supposed to believe that this particular Quell was designed at the beginning of the creation of the Hunger Games.

"Citizens of Panem, it is with great pleasure that I bring to you a most glorious announcement, that of the 75th Quarter Quell!" The president's words are met with raucous cheers from the spectators gathered in the massive arena before him. I shiver as the cheers of the Capitolites reach a fever pitch. The president raises a white gloved hand, motioning for the crowd to quiet down. He smirks as his followers eventually calm themselves to a low grumble.

He holds the envelope in front of him so that the glittering capitol seal shimmers as he reads the contents for all to hear. There is a sickening pride in his tone, "To commemorate the downfall of the rebellious groups that caused so much contempt and suffering in our nation, this year – the 75th year of our beloved Hunger Games, all tributes will be selected as a reminder of how each and every family in our nation struggled with loss. Two months from today each family in the twelve districts will be required to nominate one person from their extended kinfolk aged 12-75 to participate in the Hunger Games. In this massive celebration every district will receive a chance to have the ultimate honor and glory as the 12 remaining contestants will be crowned victorious," the president's eyes gleam as he finishes the announcement.

Katniss bends over, pressing her body down toward the floor and squeezing a fist against her mouth. Immediately I bend to press my arm around her shoulders. She is going to lead possibly hundreds of District 12 citizens to their deaths. The thought makes me want to vomit and I'm not even the one who will be tasked with that burdensome duty. The fear in my stomach begins to churn even more as I slowly realize the gravity of the situation. Each extended family in the district will sacrifice one person. _I don't have an extended family_. Father and I are all that remain of my family line.

It takes me a moment to realize that Gale is cursing up a storm beside us. He rises to his feet and slams a fist into the mantle over the fireplace, "They're nuts. They're all fucking nuts. Listen to them fucking screaming with glee. Thousands of people are going to die and they're cheering."

Hazelle hurries around the couch and grabs onto her son's shoulder roughly, "Young man, watch your language." She looks at the younger boys pointedly and heads back to the stove to continue stirring the soup.

I feel Katniss shaking roughly. She falls to her knees and finally begins to cry. I fold my arms more tightly around her and whisper reassurances that I know I shouldn't be making. It hasn't even begun and I already know that this will be the most horrifying Hunger Games of all time. Seventy-five years of senseless killing and it will never end.

I look up at Gale and it occurs to me that he will volunteer himself to protect his family. The thought causes an intense anger to squash my fear. I let go of Katniss and rise up to face Gale. There is an intense fire in his eyes that flares greater than any of the glimpses I saw of it at the rebellion meeting. My father is looking worriedly between the two of us. My brain is running a mile a minute as I come to realize how I can save everyone in this room.

I step toward Gale and look directly into his eyes because I will lose my nerve if I look at anyone else, "Marry me."

Hazelle gasps loudly from the kitchen area and Rory mutters a vivid, "Oh, shit." Gale's eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't betray any emotions.

I force the words out quickly without giving Gale any time to respond, "You're her _cousin _Gale. If we're married I can go in your place. Your whole family will be saved and the Everdeen's too. You'll be safe." I keep my eyes locked on his, pleading with him silently to understand where I am coming from with this. His face is stern and expressionless, so different from the caring way that he looked at me earlier. Katniss starts mumbling something through her tears, some sort of protest, but I can't understand her words.

My father is rising from the couch and grasping at my arm, yelling at me as he tries to pull me to face him. "Sidney, you will not volunteer yourself. I will go, I'm dying anyway," he finally forces me to look at him by placing his hands on my face.

"No, if you go I will have nothing left to live for," I tell my father honestly.

An expression of hurt-love glazes over his eyes as I grip my father's shirt and punctuate my words with forceful pulls at his shoulders, "I will have nothing left. I want to be with mother as much as you do."

My father begins to cry and presses his forehead against mine. I grip him tight in a hug and keep telling him what I honestly believe is true, "I will go, I will go. It should be me. It's the only viable option. It should be me." I feel my limbs quaking with emotion for the thousandth time in the last few days. It has been a never-ending emotional roller coaster.

Katniss is crying loudly now and poor Posy seems frightened beyond her wits. I suddenly regret my impulsive action. I should have taken Gale outside, away from his sister and brothers. Rory ushers Vick and Posy into the bedroom as my father and I grip each other tightly. I finally look over at Gale and see that he has turned away from me. He is resting his head against his arm, leaning into the wall. Hazelle is stands next to him, warily looking between me and her son. The dinner she was preparing is all but forgotten.

Gale turns toward his mother and grimaces as he meets her eyes. She is shaking her head at him, fearing that he might actually take me up on my offer. If he does, that will leave room for him to volunteer before I get the chance. I hope with all of my being that he doesn't attempt that. My father and I pull away from each other as Gale pushes off the wall.

He looks at me with a fierce expression as he seals our fate with a firm nod, "I'll marry you."


End file.
